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Reflections On The Death Of A Son .  . . .Mabel Blanche Barto Caston

My first instinct is that she never fully recovered.  My second instinct is that she was never as close to Father God as she was when writing these reflections.  By the time I first read Mother’s lines, she had already joined her son; I could never talk to her about it.  When she had lost her first son, I was too young to realize what was happening.

The tenderness and love between Douglas (my son) and me (his mother) are almost indescribable – such sweetness and sadness combined.

His solicitation of me is most tender – an awareness of my needs in his deep need, even when I think he is disoriented and/or confused.

This is not new, but it is new to those who experience death by the bedside of a very dear person – that “things” as such have very little meaning or can do little to compensate for life in its fullest perspective.

If, in Doug’s death, we could influence or persuade or help any or even one, of his friends to come to or think seriously about a living, loving relationship with Christ, it would be worth it all.

Death is not pretty. To watch a beautiful man, my child, wither and waste away cannot be described. Nothing left but skin over bones. The only “beauty for ashes” from this personal indignity is that we/he shall be made like Him – His glorious, perfect person with no more humiliation, no more pain and suffering, no more confusion – just “glory” (by and by).

The sophistication of so much that is called life is simply a charade. The reality of being is to be able to live right and to die right.

Tears don’t help make him well or bring life to my dying son, but they pour from me as though my soul is pouring out in his behalf. I feel as though I die a little with him every day.

Waiting, waiting, waiting . . . going is what he wants most to do, but staying is what he must do yet. Only God knows when He will open one door and close the other one. So, we are all still waiting and waiting with you, dear Doug.

The full circle of life – birth pangs, although painful, brought joy to us as Doug came into the world; and now, death pangs, also painful, will at the last bring joy to us all.

M.b.c.

1981