I have a framed photo on the wall above my desk at home in my small office. In this photo, I am 15 years old and sitting on the floor in a tan skirt and matching vest. Right behind me on a stool sits my mother in her favorite pale blue dress. She is 37, and to her left sits her mother on a taller chair wearing a crisp white blouse, pearls, and a pencil skirt. She is 60. In front of her sits her mother, my great-grandmother, in a rocking chair. She is 90 and wears a printed chiffon dress.
As I stared reflectively at the photo, I realized that everyone in the photo, except for me, has been in all 4 seats. Our lives are similar to a game of musical chairs. At an unknown point in life, the music stops, we get up and find a different chair, and instead of there being one less chair, there is one less person. The next new life enters the game, and the music begins again, joyfully and resounding.
I remember Christmas morning in 1988 when the phone rang, and it was my mom calling to inform me that my great-grandmother, the one in the chiffon dress, had passed quietly in her sleep. She had just turned 100 years old the week before, and so many friends and relatives came to see her and to celebrate. She was perfectly cognizant, and it was a very happy day. I can’t imagine a better situation for the end of one’s life; you turn 100, have a big party, see all of your family, and then go to your eternal rest on Christmas Day.
I could visualize in my mind her getting up from that rocking chair in the picture on the wall, looking back at us, smiling, and then walking out of view of the photo. Music plays and my mom’s mother smiles, stands up, and takes her place in the rocking chair. She is now in her late 70’s. My mother gets up and moves from her stool to her mother’s chair. She is 47. I get to get up off of the floor and sit on the stool now, and my first child toddles on the floor before me. I am 25, and he is just 6 months old. My new seat doesn’t come with any instructions. It’s intimidating and oftentimes scary. I have so much to learn in order to sit here.
And now some time has passed. I think I must have blinked because I look at the picture on the wall again and I see myself in another chair. My grandmother smiles at me as she stands up from the rocking chair and walks out of the photo. I believe I hear her softly whisper “Ambrosia!” as she leaves, and then the music plays. That certainly happened quickly. I look down in front of me, and now I see my mother sitting in that chair.
I really love this new seat. I am in a tall chair! I don’t feel any older, but I am. My son is in the seat next to me now, and he is 37. At his feet on the floor is a darling baby in a swaddling blanket. My responsibilities are changing in this seat; I am not certain what is expected of me here. There will still be mistakes made, as learning never ends.
I look down at the rocker again. It is the only chair left ahead of me. As I sit at my desk, I close my eyes and can visualize myself in that rocking chair in the photo on the wall. I am certainly not sad or anxious about moving and changing seats. I consider it a blessing. I pray that I make it to the last seat. I hope the music will be as beautiful when it is my turn to leave the rocking chair.
