Visiting my mother

The last few days I have been visiting my mother. She is growing old, approaching 85 years. The body is failing her more and more, and she is not well at all. But her inner being is younger than ever. In spite of her pain and diseases she said to me to night: �When I lay down to sleep, I tell myself and my God that I still like to live. I enjoy life! Is it wrong of me thinking like that at my age?� I assured her that it was right of her to like to live in spite of her circumstances.

When I looked at her, she was so beautiful; her eyes so bright and full of life. Her body has become fragile and delicate like an artwork of fine china. Her white hair is like a crown of life. Even though she has shrunk to become seven inches shorter than she used to be, she is a greater person than ever. To me, even the hunch she has developed on her back, has a strange beauty. There is a kind of an inner radiance of beauty breaking forth in the ugliest expression of her aging body.