My mother died before my final child was born. Since the day he arrived I’ve been wishing things were different, that fate could be changed or reversed and she’d have the ability to see him.
I dream about her staring into his chubby cheeks and sparkling eyes. I imagine her smile upon seeing him. I think and wonder about the relationship they’d have and the emotion that would spill from her with just one glance.
But, seeing isn’t meeting.
If I believe everything I tell my children I believe and accept everything my faith has taught me then I should know she has seen him. She sees us all.
But meeting is different from seeing.
Meeting him is hugs and kisses.
Meeting him is an exchange of love. It’s not one-sided.
Meeting him is a moment, felt by him and her, and everyone.
Meeting him is a reciprocated experience.
Simply seeing him is an unequal scenario. It’s an unbalanced blessing.
Seeing him from her eternity is a heartbreakingly fragile difference than meeting him here with us, together.
She knows him and he knows her, but death has eliminated the beauty of them knowing each other, together, simultaneously.
My prayer has been answered except I sent up the wrong one. This whole time I’ve been praying for the wrong thing. I didn’t want her to simply see him, I wanted them to meet. I wanted them to embrace and get to know one another. I wanted the whole experience, the entire blessing of that relationship and introduction. I wanted so much more than the simple prayers I’d been sending up above.
Beautiful to have prayers answered.
Bittersweet that I’ve been praying the wrong ones.
Who knew the fragile difference between seeing and meeting.
xox, Chels
