This is an excerpt of a song written in October of 1999 for a friend, Natalie Flanagan. She was then utilizing a country-styled rock format in her music, and I thought it would be a fun song for her to do. I wrote some music for it but abandoned it because it was sounding too much like a John Prine song. When I gave her the lyrics she read them over and eyed me suspiciously.
"Is this about me?" she asked.
"Oh, no. I don't know you well enough to write a song about you." I replied.

    As far as I know she has never recorded it. If anyone has heard from John Prine lately, have him give me a call.

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    It is said that the relationship which you have with your parents intrinsically defines how you approach your relationship with God. It's true; after all, the care that you are given on earth by a parent greatly affects how you perceive your creator.

    I can't say I really knew my mother well. I've always found the defining characteristics of our relationship evasive. We lived in vastly different worlds which I had long ago accepted yet was uncertain that she recognized. I'm sure she must have. I'm sure, like most things between us she was playing along and accepting me on my own terms while firmly reassuring me of hers. I always loved trying to make her laugh, which was my way of delving deeper into who she was. She often seemed more puzzled by my humor than anything, but she would smile and shake her head in disbelief. Just as with God I really wanted to please her but found it to be a difficult process. Maybe I was too analytical, trying to know certainties and quantifications, or too artistic, needing to see a perfect form and perspective.

    I came to understand over the years that she had taught me some of the most vital and basic approaches to understanding better and deepening my relationship more fully with God, and for years I never saw it this way. Part of what made up my view of our differing worlds was a sense that I didn't quite belong or that she didn't quite know what to make of me. As a consequence I had loads of downtime by myself to chase my creative impulses, and somewhere in this luxurious freedom they were developed. I was able to show her my love through my own creative expression while trusting in and knowing her love. The other aspect of our relationship involved long periods of silence. When I came to visit I would sit, both of us saying very little, seeking to sense the deeper stirrings of her spirit. In the stillness and the silence between us I also trusted in and received her love. There is a different type of discipline I was taught by her which has become crucial to my spiritual walk with God, and I can't imagine having a peaceful life without it. It is important having long stretches of quiet time in prayer and contemplation as well as being alone to explore and express my creativity. I learned these from my mother and I wished I'd been able to share this more fully with her. In this she also taught me to trust in her constant love just as God teaches me to trust in His unfailing love. I came to realize that it really is quite simple and not a difficult process at all.

    Last year we drove to Las Vegas together. Her illness was already making her weak and she apologized for her constant falling asleep. We sat in long stretches of silence as I drove and prayed, and occasionally she would wake up and we'd chat. She recalled how as a child I often saw forms and shapes hidden in the landscape or suggested by the sparse architecture of the desert. We scanned the radio and found a local Mexican station playing lively conjunto music, and she lit up as she talked of being a young woman, going to dances where this music was played. Mom danced to conjunto? It was hard to believe let alone imagine. We talked about popular music, about Elvis, her all time favorite singer, about how there are no longer singers like Frank Sinatra any more. We talked about the simple, home-spun humor of Andy Griffth. I was able to share with her about some of his earlier comedy recordings before he became well known through television, and about Harry Connick, Jr., the contemporary successor to old blue eyes. She listened intently in the stillness of the long drive. We pulled into a truck stop where I happened to find among a bargain bin of cassette recordings the early recordings of Andy Griffith and a tape of Harry Connick, Jr. I eagerly bought them both and played them for her through the rest of the drive. It was a special treat for me, being able to share this with her, seeing her smile and laugh with enjoyment, our different worlds joining together. She was more than happy; she was content. Maybe it really is simple. Maybe our worlds aren't all that different after all.

    I've come to see this much more clearly through the past week as I've talked to neighbors, as I sorted through pictures and remembered events and moments. The passing of a loved one is an overwhelming force which you can't look at entirely and objectively. Your scope is limited to fuller details no matter which way you approach it, and words can hardly even begin to express who they are, your appreciation for them or the beginning of your loss. The sharing of memories of events and moments, the extended words of friends and neighbors, and photographs have to make up that other area which is in your heart and is inexpressible. She is finally through with her job here. She has put off the anxious cares of this world for good and has flown from our presence to alight at the breast of God. This is where I once again have to rely upon and take solace in the silence, to trust in the love she showed to me and others, and wait to see what arises from the heart of creativity where she will always reside and where I will always be with her.