Text: An­ne Lind­fors

Trans­la­ti­on: Sirk­ka-Lii­sa Lei­no­nen

Have yo­ur so­me­ti­mes won­de­red what life would be like if things had gone dif­fe­rent­ly? If you had not fal­len ill. If you had been ab­le to go to the sum­mer ser­vi­ces. If there had not been an an­gel to pro­tect you in an ac­ci­dent.

On­ce, at a qui­et mo­ment, I found my­self won­de­ring what my life would have been like if my mot­her had not had a me­mo­ry di­sor­der. If I could still go and vi­sit with her. If she would come and open the door for me and we would both have our ey­es light up with joy. If she could pat me on the shoul­der and speak the fa­mi­li­ar words, ”How lo­ve­ly that you came! God’s Pe­a­ce!”

We would cook to­get­her and share news about our li­ves. I would tell her about the joys and wor­ries of my dai­ly life, let her lis­ten to our kids’ sin­ging re­cor­ded on my phone. I would mas­sa­ge her shoul­ders, we would add some words to the cros­s­word puz­z­le lying on the tab­le, and chat about things. When le­a­ving, I would hug her hard and we would bless each ot­her with the gos­pel. When I would look back on the dri­ve­way, I would still see her wa­ving at the door. And I would turn to wave a few ti­mes, un­til the road di­sap­pe­ars in­to the trees.

Alt­hough we can­not en­joy that kind of to­get­her­ness any more, I feel em­po­we­red by these me­mo­ries. I feel gra­te­ful for what used to be. Gra­te­ful for the love that left a mark.

And that love is still there. I found that one day when I was pus­hing my mot­her in a wheelc­hair on the yard and sin­ging to her. Alt­hough she had not re­cog­ni­zed me when I came, she see­med to re­act to the fa­mi­li­ar song. When I saw that her lips be­gan to form the words, I stop­ped wor­rying about out­si­ders he­a­ring us. My he­art burs­ting with hap­pi­ness, I con­ti­nu­ed to sing the song that I had sung with my mot­her so of­ten. “The pe­a­ce of God be with you! Dear friends we must de­part.” For a mo­ment I felt we were sit­ting on a hard bench in sum­mer ser­vi­ces, nos­tal­gic but hap­py.

It does not help us to feel sor­ry for things that did not hap­pen. But I think it is on­ly re­al­ly harm­ful if it ma­kes us dis­sa­tis­fied. At its best, awa­re­ness of the num­ber of ways things could have gone ma­kes us see God’s gui­dan­ce in our li­ves and ap­p­re­ci­a­te the va­lue of the pe­op­le who are dear to us. We can be gra­te­ful for good me­mo­ries, but should al­so re­cog­ni­ze the good and won­der­ful things that we still have.

One day, when I had been re­mi­nis­cing about the mo­ments I had spent with my mot­her, I sug­ges­ted that my hus­band should take our son to the Opis­to. That would give them some ext­ra time to­get­her. I al­so thought that he could stop to vi­sit his own pa­rents on the way. Now that it is still pos­sib­le.

It is not good to think too much about what could have been. Child­ren of­ten te­ach us about that. Where an adult on­ly sees a clo­sed door or a bro­ken dish, a child with an open mind can see an op­por­tu­ni­ty. I was on­ce again re­min­ded about this by our cheer­ful five-ye­ar-old son: “The hole in my sock is not re­al­ly bad. I can now use that toe bet­ter to brake!”

I can be hap­py and think that the He­a­ven­ly Fat­her has gi­ven me the kind of life that I need. A life that, even with its pains, is best for me. I can al­so se­cu­re­ly trust that God will gui­de us to­ward he­a­ven. And if that hap­pens, not­hing needs to go dif­fe­rent­ly.