Faith | Love was seen clearly through the window ‘pain’

In the spring of 2020, my mother lived in an assisted-living facility two hours from our home. It had been a hard decision for us, but my wife and I had finally agreed we could no longer provide the care she needed.

The place was pleasant enough, but when the COVID-19 lockdown orders came out, the doors were locked from the inside out. No visitors—and no exceptions. Suddenly, what should have been warm, personal visits, drives through the countryside, and lunches out turned into remote, window-framed glimpses.

We drove there anyway, of course, once or twice a week, and stood outside looking through a window. Inside, Mom sat in a wheelchair with her head down—until I tapped on the glass to let her know I was calling. Then a smile would cross her face as we held iPhones to our ears and pretended the barrier wasn’t there.

Sometimes we would sing church hymns that she loved so much, competing with the wind or the muffled sounds of the facility behind her. We would pray and she joined in, her voice never stronger than when she called on the name of Jesus.

“We love you, Mom,” we called out as we walked away. We’ll be back soon!”

With one last wave from the parking lot, we drove home, emotions churning. Those moments—fleeting, awkward, yet incredibly precious—became the last I would ever share with her.

As summer passed, she no longer raised her head when I tapped on the pane, her voice grew muffled, and the phone calls shorter. Like so many across our nation, Mom was withering under the weight of loneliness.

In August, she slipped away from us.

Suddenly, the pandemic ended. Masks came off. Doors reopened everywhere—except that one inside me. For years, I kept those memories locked behind a mostly opaque pane of glass.

Then came this morning, when my phone lit up with a photo from my son. His 7-month-old son—my grandson—was on the other side of a glass door separating the living room from their home office. The baby had discovered the magic of transparency.

He pressed his chubby hand to the pane, cheek squished in a big smile, eyes wide with discovery, mouth open in a drooly grin. Before him, blurred but unmistakable, I could see my son’s workspace. Without explanation, almost instantly, my mother’s face overlaid the baby’s in my mind.

The parallel gripped me.

Here was a child, full of life, separated by glass yet undeterred, patting the window with delight. There was my mother, in her final months, doing the same—reaching out, smiling, loving behind the glass.

In that single image, time collapsed. The baby’s reflection overlapped my mind the way mine once overlapped my mother’s.

My grandson’s photo reminded me that life flies by in flashes—smiles through windows, hands outstretched, brief connections that carry us forward in hopes we will meet again.

We reach, we wave, we press palms to glass, hoping the other side feels our warmth and seeking warmth in return. And sometimes, for a golden moment or two, we do feel it.

My mother never met her great-grandson. She will never see him pat a window and laugh at the mystery of almost-touch. But this morning, in the overlap of reflections, somehow she did.

I know it.

Something shifted and let the light through.

For those who feel the weight of such separations (and who doesn’t?) there is a deeper invitation in Jesus. In him we have a Savior who promises not just fleeting glimpses through glass, but eternal life, and glad reunions with loved ones. He stands ready, not behind a window, but with open arms.

“For now we see but a faint reflection of riddles and mysteries as though reflected in a mirror, but one day we will see face-to-face.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, TPT)

Rev. Micah Smith is president and founder of Global Gateway Network (globalgatewaynetwork.org). Questions and comments should be directed to editor Lucy Luginbill in care of the Tri-City Herald newsroom. Email lluginbill@tricityherald.com.