“Take, eat; this is My body.”
Thus, Jesus spoke to his disciples before kneeling to wash their feet. He gathered his beloveds and his betrayers alike, knowing the end was near, and fed them the feast of his farewell–the Last Supper.
“This is My blood of the new covenant, which is shed for many,” as though he were closing the chapter of his brief life and conferring upon them the mantle of his message.
“May the loyal remain steadfast and savour what I have given; let the traitors betray, for they on no account will ever believe.”
The blinds were drawn.
As she neared her end, my mother summoned her children and her siblings. She embraced those dear to her, mended divisions and chose with whom to entrust her last wishes.
Feasts were held while she lay in that small room, resting between laboured breaths and prayers. Fixing us with a deep penetrating gaze, glances unfamiliar, as though she were seeing through us, or beyond us. She had already decided who and when. She had also decided how she would tell us about her vicious ailment.
I arrived home on Saturday evening.
Ever since my grandmother passed twenty years ago, I’d had this dreadful foreboding to reach the airport and not find my mother. I know her well, she was always standing at the front, among the first to welcome–overcome by longing. I longed to see her too, her smile lighting her face.
She was not there that day! Just as she had not been then. It was only my father.
A profound sense of solitude and stillness filled the car as we drove.
My heart raced, counting each minute until I would see her.
When I arrived home, she withheld the news so that I might rest. She wanted me to get some sleep. Only on Monday, after the doctor’s visit, did she tell me, adding that the disease was incurable.
“The treatment is aggressive,” she said, and handed me the responsibility of telling the others.
“I want you to be strong for me. It is hope I seek in your eyes, not tears.”
By then, even the simplest movements were beyond her, requiring her to pause and catch her breath. But just the night before, she rose, purified herself with dry ablution, prayed, and returned to her bed without assistance. Wrapped in her prayer shawl, she appeared like the Virgin Mary in her shrine. She felt a divine message reach her, and she understood that the end was near.
“Bring the chair and help me sit. Wheel me to the hall, I must welcome the visitors.”
Her voice was faint, but carried her unmistakable authority, a formidable woman, untamable in spirit. She was never one for compromise; in her presence, “no” was a word unheard of. Her will prevailed. Her approval came before mine, before all else.
I covered her hair with a veil, draped a shawl over her shoulders, and helped her into the wheelchair. After ensuring that the oxygen tubes hadn’t caught on the wheels, we headed toward the hall, where everyone had gathered, sipping tea.
It was so strange how my world was ending that day, while for others, the world turned as it always had.
It did not end–it kept turning—
But the world I knew collapsed.
Was this how it felt for everyone?
Seated in her wheelchair, she spoke to those who came, preaching forgiveness and forbearance, much as Christ might have. She looked upon us with unknowable eyes, obscured by the oxygen mask she wore in her final week. In her deep gaze lay secrets, as though the knowledge of the world itself were enshrined there.
I remember her now and wonder: Did she know, as Jesus knew, which of us was Judas and which was Peter?
Her words were laden with meaning, a code I continue to try and decipher. They felt divinely inspired, utterances from beyond the ordinary world.
“Forgive. Eat from the bread we have shared for forty years. I have struggled a lifetime within these walls; now I am hollowed out from illness, and this body will vanish today.”
Tomorrow, some of you will preserve my legacy; others will betray my covenant. “Today, I have perfected your faith.” I have completed the cycle. Let the clock reset. Let each earn what is deserved, O people of resolve. Tomorrow, a new covenant begins.
And so it was.
I sat by her bedside, bent over her hand and kissed it fiercely as if to say: forgive me, I love you, do not leave.
She kissed my head and said, “Be strong, be a woman. Don’t let your thoughts scatter.”
And as she faded, “Be strong.”
العشاء الأخير
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist Ernest Williamson III, PhD
