“The love we give away . . . is the only love we keep.” ~ Elbert
Hubbard
When it became clear that her
battle with ovarian cancer was nearing its end, Justina recorded messages to
her then 4-year-old daughter, Sophia, so her only child could play them back in
the lonely times that would follow her death.
She read familiar stories, gave advice, offered encouragement and
sometimes just said “Good night my love.”
Now, 18 months after Justina took her final breath, young
Sophia still relished the warm, familiar sound of her mother's voice whenever
she wanted, by replaying those recordings on her iPod. Rituals like that helped her heal following
the loss of her #1 fan.
Sophia couldn’t remember a dad in her life. Mom had never mentioned him. If he’d died, there were no pictures honoring
his memory.
She’d been forced to live with her aunt, a bitter middle
aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister’s child.
She never failed to remind Sophia, that
had it not been for her generosity, she would be a vagrant, orphaned soul.
Still, with all the scolding and animosity at home, she remained
a sweet and gentle child.
Sophia’s kindergarten teacher hadn’t really noticed her
until she began staying after class each day to help straighten up the room. She rarely spoke, preferring the quiet
solitude to the resentment that awaited her at home. When they did talk, Sophia spoke mostly about
the mother she adored – a kind, loving woman who always made time for her.
As Christmas drew near however, Sophia stopped staying after
school; bolting quickly from the room after class. One day his teacher stopped her and asked why
she was in such a hurry to get home. “I
miss you,” the teacher confided.
Her large hazel eyes lit up eagerly as she replied, “Did you
really mean it?”
The teacher explained how Sophie had been her best helper. “I’m making you a surprise,” she whispered, “for
Christmas.” Now embarrassed, she hurried
out the door.
On the last school day before Christmas, Sophia tiptoed silently
into the room, her hands concealing something behind her back.
“I have your present,” she said softly. “I hope you like it.” From behind her back, she produced a
colorfully-decorated box.
“Sophia, it’s beautiful! Is there something inside?” she asked opening
the top to look inside.
“Of course, but you can’t see it,” she replied. “And you
can’t touch, taste or feel it. Mom says it
makes you feel special, warm on chilly nights, and safe when you’re all alone.”
She gazed into an empty box. “What is it dear,” she asked, “that’ll make me
feel so wonderful?”
“It’s LOVE,” she stated with conviction. “Mom says it’s best when you give it away.” Then turning she simply left the room.
Lord of life; awaken within me the courage
to love. Help me to love myself as
deeply and profoundly as You love me.
Bring to me those who would love me with honesty and validity. Amen
