Lights Flicker
What a beautiful, interesting, enlightening evening I had. My dear friend MaSovaida hosted a devotional gathering this evening in honor of the 20th anniversary of her mother's passing. MaSovaida was only six when it happened.
Tonight was honestly one of the most stirring encounters I've had with thoughts of death and the afterlife. Mas put together a beautiful program with prayers, scriptures about life after death, and music. The most special thing she shared, though, were intimate accounts penned by her mother's own hand during her last months. Letters to her family members and closest companions. Letters where she talked about how the disease had left half of her face paralyzed, had caused her to lose her balance, had caused all food to taste bitter for her which left her at a frail 96lbs owing to the displeasure of eating, how she had lost all energy and only felt relief when lying down. But she had two children to care for still. How there were days when she begged God to end her misery and take her. But then she would pray and in those moments of prayer she sensed some relief, understood there were reasons yet for her to keep pushing on. There were also days when she asked Him not to take her. Her children were so young. They needed their mom.
She writes to her cousin and explains what it's like to have to have a frank conversation about death with your five year old son. How do you convey to your children that your body may be gone but in spirit you are with them?
MaSovaida's mom was a journalist and her gift with language was remarkable. The tone of those letters. The strength of that woman. Listening to MaSovaida read a letter where her mom explains what it's like to explain to MaSovaida why her skin is so much darker than her own mother's, and that she is still beautiful. (Mas is half Filipino, half African-American.)
The whole thing...it was just surreal. We all felt an energy in that room..And I was so proud of MaSovaida for her strength, her poise, her ability to share such intimate details so comfortably with a room full of people. You could tell that she is mother's daughter, even if that mother didn't get the chance to raise her.
It was so nice because afterwards our conversations were so rich and close. As if we all took a cue from MaSovaida and began sharing intimate stories of our own childhoods with one another. I told Lydia about the time I made my mother cry by asking her why she had to make a 'scary persian dish' and humiliate me in front of my friends instead of just ordering pizza...how we yelled at each other that night and then when I slipped into bed a few hours later, I overheard her crying, telling my dad that she had spent hours preparing that dish, excitedly perfecting it, pouring so much love into that dish- my favorite dish, so that my friends would feel honored as guests and welcomed into our home.
I cry every time I share that story. Thinking about how my mother must have felt. Thinking of all the things she sacrificed and left behind because of her beliefs. Her desire to do something noble. The way her ungrateful daughter treated her sometimes because she was embarrassed that she didn't fit in like everyone else.
Lydia shared stories of her own family life. Struggles and triumphs.
We both teared up for one another. Laughed at the awkward stories.
Then Soha and I sat together and talked about career paths and our purpose in life. Seeing the interconnections in things. Understanding the forces at play in the world. Our role in advancing civilization.
On my quiet walk home we passed some flickering lights and I thought about how appropriate it was. How sometimes we have these moments of absolute pristine clarity. And others where we sit in the dark again. Questioning. Wondering.
Tonight lights flickered on.
Tonight was honestly one of the most stirring encounters I've had with thoughts of death and the afterlife. Mas put together a beautiful program with prayers, scriptures about life after death, and music. The most special thing she shared, though, were intimate accounts penned by her mother's own hand during her last months. Letters to her family members and closest companions. Letters where she talked about how the disease had left half of her face paralyzed, had caused her to lose her balance, had caused all food to taste bitter for her which left her at a frail 96lbs owing to the displeasure of eating, how she had lost all energy and only felt relief when lying down. But she had two children to care for still. How there were days when she begged God to end her misery and take her. But then she would pray and in those moments of prayer she sensed some relief, understood there were reasons yet for her to keep pushing on. There were also days when she asked Him not to take her. Her children were so young. They needed their mom.
She writes to her cousin and explains what it's like to have to have a frank conversation about death with your five year old son. How do you convey to your children that your body may be gone but in spirit you are with them?
MaSovaida's mom was a journalist and her gift with language was remarkable. The tone of those letters. The strength of that woman. Listening to MaSovaida read a letter where her mom explains what it's like to explain to MaSovaida why her skin is so much darker than her own mother's, and that she is still beautiful. (Mas is half Filipino, half African-American.)
The whole thing...it was just surreal. We all felt an energy in that room..And I was so proud of MaSovaida for her strength, her poise, her ability to share such intimate details so comfortably with a room full of people. You could tell that she is mother's daughter, even if that mother didn't get the chance to raise her.
It was so nice because afterwards our conversations were so rich and close. As if we all took a cue from MaSovaida and began sharing intimate stories of our own childhoods with one another. I told Lydia about the time I made my mother cry by asking her why she had to make a 'scary persian dish' and humiliate me in front of my friends instead of just ordering pizza...how we yelled at each other that night and then when I slipped into bed a few hours later, I overheard her crying, telling my dad that she had spent hours preparing that dish, excitedly perfecting it, pouring so much love into that dish- my favorite dish, so that my friends would feel honored as guests and welcomed into our home.
I cry every time I share that story. Thinking about how my mother must have felt. Thinking of all the things she sacrificed and left behind because of her beliefs. Her desire to do something noble. The way her ungrateful daughter treated her sometimes because she was embarrassed that she didn't fit in like everyone else.
Lydia shared stories of her own family life. Struggles and triumphs.
We both teared up for one another. Laughed at the awkward stories.
Then Soha and I sat together and talked about career paths and our purpose in life. Seeing the interconnections in things. Understanding the forces at play in the world. Our role in advancing civilization.
On my quiet walk home we passed some flickering lights and I thought about how appropriate it was. How sometimes we have these moments of absolute pristine clarity. And others where we sit in the dark again. Questioning. Wondering.
Tonight lights flickered on.
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