My mother is still sleeping and I want her to sleep. Outside I won't disturb her. I heard her in the middle of the night, walking slowly from her bedroom to the kitchen, pushing her walker in front of her. Startled awake, I thought at first that someone was moving furniture. I fell asleep again soon after, so I don't know how long she was awake. But she has told me that she is often awake for hours in the middle of the night. And so I am determined to let her sleep—through the morning if she can.

I'm also determined to rid this flower bed of weeds. There are parts of my mother's garden that are overrun with weeds. Even the huge expanses of daylilies show the effects of my mother's diminishing powers. It is a red-letter day now when my mother can come outside simply to sit and observe her flowers. Working in the garden, especially in the heat and humidity of July, is not a possibility for her. And yet, I know that she feels the weeds as a reproach. Even if she cannot see them, she knows they are there. In the few days I am visiting her I can't eliminate all the weeds, but perhaps I can eradicate them from the two borders closest to the house and still do the other things I want to do for her while I am here.

My mother's time is running out. Oh, it's possible that she might live a few more years. But it seems equally possible that she might die in a few months' time. She is eighty-five years old, eighty-six in November. Congestive heart failure, failing kidneys, and chronic bronchitis plague her movements, sap her strength, and swell the extremities of her body. She's been in the hospital several times over the last year. She almost died last winter of pneumonia until an effective antibiotic was found. But she is still here, living in her house alone, where she wants to remain as long as possible. A nurse comes twice a week to check her vital signs, a nurse's aide once a week. My two sisters and my brother, who all live nearby, visit her on the other days, perform her routine errands. I know all this, have visited when I can through the year, have had long conversations with my sisters about her health and her doctors and treatments. And still, when I arrived yesterday I was shocked again by how old and worn she looks, by the number of prescription bottles that litter her kitchen table. I know she has to die, that she cannot live forever, and nearly eighty-six years is quite a span of days. And yet my heart rebels. Why can't the people we love go on and on? As Annie Dillard says, "The mind wants to live forever, or learn a very good reason why not."

I am up to my armpits in daylilies. The petals of the ones that will bloom today are just beginning to crack open. As the sun moves higher in the sky, the swollen tapers of blossom will spread wide in their classic six-petaled shape, three petals below topped by three above. The petals of yellow and gold and red and purple and lavender and pink and salmon and rose, and even white—and a hundred subtle variations of color in between—will spread wide to reveal the throat of the bloom and the arching stamens. The throats and the stamens also vary in color. This one has a lemon-yellow throat, this one a lime-green, and this a corona of perfect peach. My mother has nearly a thousand daylilies of several hundred varieties. Who knew there were so many daylilies?

As I stoop to my work, I develop a rhythm of pull and gather. This particular border is overrun with a grass that seems uniquely suited to be the bane of a daylily enthusiast. Its sawlike fronds grow in fans, as do the daylilies. The fans of the grass have become interlaced with the daylily foliage, obscuring its roots. I separate the daylily fans with one hand and pull with the other, transfer the pulled weed to the other hand and separate again. When my separating hand grows too full, I stand and toss the weeds to the side of the border. Is this your particular ecological niche, weed, I wonder, to grow among daylilies?

As I work and my movements become routinized, my mind is free to wander or to focus. And I begin to think about the nature of grieving. For I know I am grieving, anticipating my mother's death. I feel I have little time left to be with her, to do for her. But still I want to imagine that she can go on and on. Oh, I know I will survive her death. The patterns of my life have for some time incorporated my mother's absence. I know she will never see my new church building, for example, even though she has followed its progress from blueprint to reality in our conversations. She will never see the place in which I have lived for the last nine years and which is now my own. She will never get to know my stepchildren. Life must come to her now and has had to for some time. And when I am honest with myself I know that there are things I do not tell her as her energy for conversation diminishes, as her sense of hearing grows fainter. Some things just require too much effort on both our parts. And yet, to imagine the future without her is to invite a yawning emptiness. For being with her is still a blessing. And doing small things for her, bringing her what pleasure I can, is still my way of staving off that inevitable day.

There is a Middle Eastern legend about a spindly little sparrow who was lying on her back in the middle of the road. A horseman came by, dismounted, and asked the sparrow what on earth she was doing lying there in the middle of the road with her feet up in the air. "I heard that the heavens were going to fall today," said the sparrow. "Oh," said the horseman, "I suppose you think that your puny legs can hold up the heavens?" "One does what one can," said the sparrow. "One does what one can." And so I weed.

I am here with her now and I want to do what I can for her while here. I fix her special meals, things she thinks she will enjoy though food has lost some of its flavor, and eating is sometimes a chore. I suggest menus and watch her reaction. "Steamed shrimp for tomorrow night when Margaret comes?" "Yes, shrimp would be nice." "Chicken breasts sautéed with shallots, mushrooms, and white wine when Steve is here?" "Yes, that sounds good—whatever you fix is always good, honey." "Scallops?" "Oh, yes"—and a big grin spreads over her face—"I've been looking forward to having scallops while you were here—that way you have of fixing them."

And so I shop and mince and cook and take delight when she cleans her plate with obvious relish. Old-fashioned southern potato salad made with sweet pickles; baked rice; bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches; and, oh yes, the scallops are obvious hits.

I cook and my mother naps and we eat. And in the evenings we watch taped episodes of "Mystery" and "Masterpiece Theater" and maybe Mother stays awake, maybe she hears enough to follow the plots. And when she has the energy, we talk—mostly about family and flowers, always flowers. My mother, the eternal optimist, is planning what she will plant next spring.

I cook and I weed. The sun has grown in ferocity and sweat pours out of me, soaking my clothes, running into my eyes. The daylilies are fully open now, achingly beautiful in their embrace of the light. What is it about this flower, whose blossom lasts only a day, whose blooming season is only a few weeks, that has so enraptured my mother? She has other flowers, but daylilies are her passion. One of my self-appointed tasks for this visit is to choose and mark specific daylilies that I will transplant to my garden in the fall. I've intended to do this for some time, but the task has taken on a new urgency now. It is not just that I want to have daylilies in my garden. I can buy daylilies whenever I want. No, I want daylilies from my mother's garden, and I want to learn their names from her mouth while there is still time. By transplanting daylilies from my mother's garden I am preserving a piece of her, hoarding some of her loveliness against that emptiness that will result from her passing.

And yet how to choose? In my tiny town-house garden I have, at best, room for ten or eleven daylilies. And my mother has hundreds of varieties. Taking a break from my weeding, I walk and look and compare. This one or that one? Is this one different from that over there? Back and forth, I walk. I know very few of them by name. And I fear that if the weather follows the forecast—hot and humid all week—my mother will not be able to come outside even to sit and instruct. How will I choose what of my mother's garden to preserve in my own?

A few I know I must have. "Becky Lynn," for example, which graces the edge of this bed I weed. Partly for its name, perhaps. But more for its coloration—a rose blend with a greenish-yellow throat. Each time I straighten from my chore, I am arrested by its sight. It is so beautiful, I can hardly stand it, and I, more than once, in a gesture I echo from my mother, cup the blossom in my hand and exclaim, "Oh, you are so lovely!" And I think again of the appeal of this flower.

My brother's daughter Kathryn came to visit yesterday. She, too, delighted in the huge expanses of daylily blooms until she discovered the reason for their name. "Why are they called daylilies?" she asks. "Because the bloom lasts only a day," I explain. "What a stupid flower! Why would you want them?" she bemoans. And I wonder, How can one explain to a nine-year-old perfection in a day?

"The mind wants to live forever," writes Annie Dillard. It hungers for eternity. Perhaps. But, barring that, when it comes to facing the death of those we love, we more likely want to know how much time we have left. We want assurances about when the end will come. Or so it seems to me as I anticipate my mother's death. It's the uncertainty that tears at you. More than once during the last year I have asked myself, in facing choices about how to spend my time, "If I knew she would die next week, what would I do?" But, despite the pundits, it is impossible to live each day as if tomorrow is the end. The mind, whether curse or no, will project into the future.

And while those who are left behind may want to prepare themselves, protect themselves, by knowing exactly when the moment will arrive, those who are facing death may have very different reactions. I've seen people who think they have lived too long, surviving their friends and family and interests, for whom death comes as a release. And I've seen people whose lives were tragically cut short. And I've watched people fight long and hard against painful, debilitating illnesses and imagined that if I were they I would have long since given up the struggle. But I've also wondered how and when one knows that that moment to yield has come. It is easy to say, from the standpoint of observation, that one wouldn't want to live once there is no pleasure left in living. But how to measure pleasure? Perhaps the mind's sidekick will settle for something like two eggs over easy or the pressure of a loved one's hand while lying in bed. I think of a colleague of mine who, living with AIDS, reacted to what he called the "premature assurances of his demise" by having a T-shirt made that read "NDY—Not Dead Yet."

Do we want to live forever or do we want to know the precise moment of our death? And if we knew the measure of our days—if we could anticipate, as with the daylily, the exact extent of our life span—how would that inform our living? Would we be happier knowing? Would we live more fully and well? I know the answer that suggests itself, have heard it, said it myself that the trick to living well is to live as if each day is a precious gift of borrowed time. To not defer one's living until—until the kids are grown, or until retirement, until whatever. To give oneself to life. To enter into the moment. That life is too short for resentment or bitterness or regrets. And certainly there is wisdom in this approach, for, in the context of the infinite, our life span, whatever the sum of the days, is, like the daylily's, only the blink of an eye.

And yet, isn't it the projection into the future that the mind cannot, will not, resist, that gives us hope? Maybe planning what she will plant next spring is what is keeping my mother alive. And are there not times and situations when one cannot live fully in the present moment? There are times, it seems, when one has to wait, for strength to return, for example, or for clarity. Times when one has to garner one's resources, marshal one's strength, bide one's time for the good talk or the walk outside. Sometimes, as with my mother, life is more a matter of pacing oneself. But, then, pacing oneself implies one knows the extent of the journey.

I weed and I ponder. Brushing up against the blossoms, my arms and legs and my face, too, I suspect, have become streaked with daylily dust. The reds, yellows, purples, and pinks adorn my body like sacred paint in some shamanistic rite. This is ritual, this weeding. And ridding this flower bed of unwanted plants is linked with mystery. For I know I am recapitulating the actions of thousands of adult children of aging parents. Doing for my mother what she no longer can do for herself. Trying to find the ways to express the love I feel for her and the gratitude for all she has given me. Trying to stave off the inevitable while preparing myself to accept it at the same time.

Finally, the sun drives me inside. Mama is up, eating her breakfast. She frowns at my wet clothes, sweaty arms and brow. "Honey, don't overdo. I don't want you to work all the time you're here." "No, Mama, it's okay." And I try to explain. "Weeding is good. It helps me think. It's kind of like prayer." And she nods and says, "Yes, I've felt that way. In fact, there have been times when I didn't know what else to do but weed and somehow weeding helped."

Yes, weeding helps. And the next day dawns cool and clear, an unexpected respite from the July torpor. In the afternoon Mama is able, with my assistance, to come outside. She has several plastic molded chairs scattered throughout the lawn. We maneuver to the nearest one and she sits. She sits and feasts her eyes on her daylilies. And when she is rested enough to move again we navigate to the next chair. And so it goes. I ask her the names of specific daylilies I particularly admire. When she cannot tell one from where she is sitting, she instructs me to break off a blossom and bring it to her for a closer look. I hesitate to do such violence. But she shakes off my reluctance—a few blooms more or less won't hurt. And in the context of all that are in bloom she is right. And so some of the blossoms are sacrificed to my need for continuance and a mother's request. With my mother's help, I make my choices, mark their spots for my return in the fall.

Enraptured by the beauty of the day and the glory of the flowers, we stay outside too long. As we make our slow progress back to the house, I can tell my mother is overtired. She will pay for this outing tomorrow. But I know she would not have it any other way. For it is not just being outside and seeing her flowers and sharing her knowledge that has transpired here. It has been transcendent time. And it is not merely daylilies that have absorbed our interest. Those flowers—those flowers whose bloom lasts only a day—have been the currency of love.

Mother is not dead yet. No, she is very much alive. And, in spite of her limitations, she still has pleasure in living. As I help her up the stairs into the house, I note that though she looks tired, her appearance has changed to me in the time I have been here. She no longer looks so pale, so shockingly worn. Her countenance is, again, that of my beautiful, beloved mother. Time may be running out for her. But here she is and here I am and time with her is precious and full and blessed. And the pleasure I take in being with her cannot be compared.

The mind does hunger for eternity. But perhaps the mistake we make is thinking that eternity means time going on forever. Perhaps eternity is more like apprehending the eternal—the timeless in the now. Something like the beauty of the daylily and the constancy of love.

My mother, Mary Edmiston, died surrounded by her loving family March 2, 1999.

Ordained in 1986,the Reverend Dr. Rebecca Edmiston-Lange received her M.Div. from Union Theological Seminary in 1978 and also completed a Ph.D. in counseling from Catholic University in 1990. She now serves the Emerson Unitarian Church in Houston, Texas, as co-minister with her husband, Mark Edmiston-Lange.




Copyright © 1999 by Rebecca Edmiston-Lange

From A Book of Women's Sermons, edited by the Rev. E. Lee Hancock (New York: Riverhead Books, 1999). Used by arrangement with Penguin Putnam, Inc.