A Song From Heaven - Bobby Smith
In the last months of my mother’s life, she would slip in and out of a world known only to her. When she was in "Her World," we would all try to reach her, to draw her back to us. But we had no control. So we lived for the clear days, when she was in "Our World."
On one of those clear days, my mother drew me to her bedside, and looking into my eyes she said, "Mom came to me yesterday." I can tell you I was not prepared for the words my Mother spoke, but as she told me of the visit, I listened, daring not to speak.
"Mom was trying to teach me something. It was like a dream, but more real," she said. "I understood clearly what she was saying," mother paused, then looked deeply into my eyes. "Mom sang an old song that she used to sing while she went about her work in the kitchen. I had forgotten that song. I wish I had the words."
I caught my breath, then asked, "What’s the name of the song?" She didn’t know the name, but she sang me the chorus, struggling to recall the words. "Far away, beyond the starry night, where the love light never, never, dies. Gleameth a mansion, filled with delight, Sweet happy home so bright." My mother sang. I sensed the importance of the song and hung on every word. Before I left that day, I promised to look for the words. I knew it would be a difficult task. I didn’t have the title, and it was a very old song.
My mother’s birthday was fast approaching, and I knew that song would be the perfect gift. I had searched with no luck. I couldn’t find the song. One day, as I listened to a "swap-n-shop" radio show, I decided to appeal to the good people in Arkansas. I called in and told them about my mother’s desire and I gave them what I had of the song. I offered to pay whatever was fair and left my number. I hung up thinking nothing much would come of the effort. I was wrong. Before the afternoon was done, I not only had the words to my mother’s song, I had the music and a tape! A lovely family made the tape for me. They filled the rest of the tape with beautiful songs, all about mothers. Not one of those wonderful people would take a dime for the time or money spent.
Oh what a Birthday that was. I popped that tape into my mother’s player and watched, as her face flooded with tears of joy. My mother played her song so much, before long, we both had it committed to memory. Little did I know what an important roll, in the months to come, that song would play.
Soon, my mother slipped into "Her World," and nothing we could do would draw her back to ours. We knew the end was near.
Before her health failed, Mother had crocheted all of her children a beautiful afghan, except for my younger sister. I recall her asking me what colors she should make Donna’s afghan. I told her I would find out, but when Mother became ill, we all forgot about the afghan . . . all that is, except Mother.
There in her hospital bed, away in her world, she would sit for hours, working in a strained position on an imaginary afghan. I tried in vain to pull her back to us. I would beg her to lay down her "yarn" and rest, but she would take on that determined look that I knew so well, pull away and continue working.
One November day, as I watched her work with her imaginary yarn, I decided to go to Mother instead of trying to pull her back to me. I admired her afghan and the pretty colors. She smiled! She had "Heard" me.
I ask her who the afghan was for, and in broken speech she said, "My girl." I made a promise to her that day. I promised to see that Donna received her beautiful Afghan. Then I started to sing her song. "Twilight is stealing over the sea." An amazing thing happened. My Mother stopped her crocheting and began to sing. She only hit every other word or so, but oh those words were precious to me. As I started to sing the chorus, I became aware of a bird singing outside the window. I walked to the window as I sang, and there perched on the cement ledge of the forth floor window, was a red and brown finch, singing his heart out! What a site we were that day, the little bird, my Mother and I, singing at the top of our lungs!
One month later, I was listening to the tape at my Mother’s funeral, and
I could almost hear her . . . singing along.
I will always believe that God sent that song to us. As for that little bird .
. . well . . . he must have been an Angel, sent to put a song in our hearts at
a time, when we needed it the most.