The first
was my maternal grandmother. Her name was Irene, and she was my favorite
relative of all times. I remember her always being happy when we were
with her, and we were always happy as well! We would go for long walks
along the beach and have long, interesting talks. She always listened to
me, and I felt free to share anything with her. I knew I could trust her
to keep my secrets. I could tell she loved me as much as I loved her.
One day my
grandmother told me she had something she wanted me to know. I remember
it clearly. I was twelve years old at the time. She was visiting at my
parents’ house, and both my mother and her sister, my aunt, were also
there. I had no idea what she wanted to say, but I could tell by her
demeaner that it wasn’t good.
She began by telling
me some things about my grandfather that I didn’t know. Because Belgium
was taken over by the Nazis early on in WWII, Belgian men were required
to fight for the Nazis. My Grandfather refused to support the Nazis in
any way, and as a result, he had to live in hiding. If the story had
stopped here, I would have been proud of my grandfather; but it didn’t.
Apparently he spent most of his time during the war in the homes of two
prostitutes. I was shocked! How could my grandfather hurt my precious
grandmother that way? After that, I didn’t like my grandfather anymore.
After all, he was still hardly ever home and the war had been over for
nearly two decades. Did he still have prostitutes he turned to instead
of my loving grandmother?
It was very had news
to hear, but the fact that my grandmother shared this with me made me
feel really special. Another of my precious memories was that every New
Year’s Eve my “Marraine”, which is what we all called her, would give
500 Belgian Francs to each of her grandchildren. One year, my 500 francs
disappeared. I didn’t want my Marraine to know; however, my mother told
her. My Marraine then proceeded to save another 500 Francs, money she
didn’t have, and she gave them to me. I was so touched! I didn’t want
the money. Just to know how much she loved me was enough.
The second favorite
woman in my childhood was my mother. She was more than a mom to me. She
was my friend. In fact, we were bosom friends. She listened to me. She
hurt when I hurt and cried when I cried, and she shared my joys, my
dreams, my aspirations. In addition, she shared her innermost thoughts
with me as well, and she always took especially good care of me. I had
no doubt in my mind that my mom loved me.
When I learned later in life that my Marraine
had Alzheimer’s, I didn’t know what to do. By this time I was living in
Canada, I had a job and a family to support, and she passed away before
I could see her that one last time. I wasn’t even able to go to the
funeral.
It was only a few years later that I learned my mother
was suffering from the same condition. I was a bit better off
financially by this time, and we tried to travel to Belgium to visit her
as often as we could. I was so happy to still have her, even though her
dementia was such that she nursing home care. I remember visiting her in
the home, taking her out in her wheelchair for ice cream at a local
café, listening to her tell all the old memories of my childhood... I
loved her so much!
As her dementia progressed, I knew in my heart
that her time was near. There were no other family members who would
visit her, and I didn’t want her to die alone. Everyone tole me it was
impossible for me to be with her at exactly the right time, especially
since it was the middle of a school year, and I couldn’t be gone from my
classroom for an indefinite period of time. I asked my Heavenly Father
to help me to be with my mother for her final journey, and He came
through. He told us exactly when we needed to make that last
trans-Atlantic flight, and my wife and I were at her side, early in the
morning of Valentine’s day, 2017. I remember so clearly how peaceful she
looked; but as she was breathing her last, I could see she was becoming
confused. I whispered to her: “Go towards the light!” Peace once again
reigned on her face, and then she was gone.
It is a sad story, but
I am so comforted to know that the two favorite women of my childhood
are both in Heaven. The problem is, now I have also
been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Am I to suffer the same fate
of these two special women?
I sought God for the answer to this
question, and here is His very interesting response: “Ask and it will be
given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened
to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to
the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7–8 NIV).
Wait! What was God
telling me?
I wasn’t sure at the time, but one message was
loud and clear: Never give up hope!
I have been clinging
to this message of hope ever since those fateful words exited the mouth
of my gerontologist; and whatever it is that has you in its filthy
clutches right now, I would also remind you: There is ALWAYS hope!
Join us next Friday to learn how God continues
to give us hope in the midst of our worst nightmares.
Rob Chaffart
The Illustrator: This daily newsletter is dedicated to encouraging
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