Panic set in as the reality weighed on me – pressing down, making it hard to breathe. I wanted to find one. Just one.  Surely there were more than these few.

I pulled album after album off the shelves.  Years old and outdated, clear plastic pages stuck to the gummy substance that held the memories captive.  At one time I planned to release them from their outdated bondage with a thread or dental floss.  Yet, years later, they remain stuck in place. Frantic, I kept turning the aged pages.  Mom and Dad, Mom and her grandkids, Mom in a group, Mom from across the room.  With every turn, my heart raced faster, I felt like a piece of my life was missing.  For all my years as family historian and documentarian, why couldn’t I find more than a couple images of mom and me together? 

Although I could picture family times together, I found no evidence of mom standing next to me, just us two, in a captured moment that I could cherish years later. 

My throat tightened, forehead clammed up as my breakfast did jumping jacks in my stomach.  Anxiety mounted.  Without warning, I slumped to the floor, a handful of freed photos in hand, and cried for what couldn’t be reclaimed.  For memories lost. For the inability to turn back the hands of time and have a do-over. 

Perhaps it’s ironic that I had my mom physically in my life until she was 86, but her ability to interact and carry conversation had left years before. She slowly, painfully slipped into the fog of dementia that kept her repeating herself until she couldn’t really respond at all.  She was there physically, but she was not present.  Not in the way a daughter longs for: able to acknowledge my mood change, make me smile with an inside joke, interested and able to ask what was new with me, present to comment on the grandkids’ latest activities, physically able to visit my home and enjoy the space with me.  She was present in body, but imprisoned deep in her own mind.  While thankful to have her in whatever form the Lord allowed, seeing her trapped by this disease of cognitive bondage made me long for the days of words and thoughts, laughter and tears together.

There were seasons that she used some socially adept and learned phrases that seemed more connected to reality: facial expressions that pulled back the veil and gave a glimpse of the vibrant woman she had been.  Her conversational tone that once flowed like a babbling brook.  She could bubble over with a quick-witted tale and then easily flow into the shallows where the water calmed, and you could make out all the details in the rocks below the surface.  Ebb and flow.  Over and under, around and through.  Coaxing, cajoling, encouraging and laughing. Oh, her laughter.  What a gift and playful sound.  Her words soothing and uplifting. Hopeful and happy.  Truthful but tame.  Prompting and pursuing. Laughter laced with love.  She lived hospitality with every word, never knowing a stranger, making all she met comfortable in her presence.  Like the refreshing sound of a brook as it winds its way over rocks and sings its joyful tune, Mom was a constant melody in the background of my life. She was a welcome sound and a place of soul rest, a cool drink from the life-giving waters of her own deep well.

This panic continued its attack on my memories as I tried to recall the last time I heard her say my name without prompting —  the recognition of her child,  not the prompted response brought on by well-intended others wanting me to feel as though she was “there” and “knew” me.  It’s a loss that is hard to fathom, a cruel tease by the ability to see her and yet know she wasn’t really seeing me.  A shell that used to house the woman I knew to be my mom. 

These memories of her were part of the longest goodbye.  Years of mourning the loss of her presence in my life and in the life of my children. 

I ask myself why didn’t I document more?  Do I have her voice recorded anywhere?  She disappeared long before technology could have been a tool she could enjoy.  I try to imagine getting texts, voicemails or even a “selfie” of her – on a walk, in her garden, talking to the surrounding wildlife, making a point without judging – and challenge my thinking to remember Scripture verses she faithfully shared.

What encouraged me as I sat in the panic and anxiety was to realize that the deep well her life-giving water sprang from was not her well only.  I too, have access that same resource.  I can plant myself by the Living Water that was my mother’s life source.  She drank deeply from the wisdom of God’s Word.  What I lack in images and photos, I can reclaim from timeless truth that guided her life and choices. 

Mom lived her example. She was a walking, talking testimony to the love, hope and forgiveness of Jesus Christ.

I can’t create pictures that don’t exist, but I do know this: Her heart’s desire was for her children and grandchildren to sit at the River and plant themselves near that life-giving flow. To spill over into the lives of others, the hope filled truth of the One who is the Living Water and a cool oasis in life’s deserts.  To pull hope from the well that never runs dry.  To dive in and let the channel take us where He directs.  To make memories that last for eternity as we pour out the joy within us that flows freely from the heart of God.

It is true the pain of loss runs deep, but I am comforted that the well of the One who is faithful runs deeper than the pain of this life.  In this I can rejoice: My mother and I, reunited in the Heavenly realm, will stand together worshiping the Living Water, King of Kings, Giver of Life, God Almighty, Righteous and Eternal One.  In that moment I will need neither photo nor memory.