It was raining without clouds. It seemed fitting somehow to drive through blue skies on the way to the cemetery, rain still managing to find us. Gray road stretched out before me, I kept wondering how tragedies and heartaches that happened over a lifetime ago could feel this new. I have lived with loss and know the darkness of death, but grief still takes me by surprise.
My boys were in the back seat in ties and black Sunday shoes. This was their first time time to go to a cemetery and they wanted to dress nice. When my Uncle died two years ago, they went to the funeral, but the family chose to wait until now to bury his ashes. He was going to be laid to rest next to my mom and brother. My feelings were so overwhelming I could feel them aching in my throat and surging through my legs that made me want to run. It felt like something was trying to come out of my body and I quickly recognized the trauma tied to those physical sensations. I closed my eyes and took breath after breath, long and deep, until I felt my core settle inside of me.
We arrived at the place. Sacred earth housing the bones of loved ones and memories never made, I got out of the truck, holding my son's hand in my own. Feelings began to swirl inside of me. My brother's ten year life, how betrayal and alcohol destroyed my mother, stealing her spark and light and heartbeat. I was feeling forgotten and missed, much like my mother's headstone in that sticker burred country cemetery. I showed my boys where they were buried. I could feel bellowing sobs forming in my gut as I saw Tommy touch my brother's grave, his eight year old fingers tracing the letters "The Greatest Blessing," that was etched into gray granite. I put my hand on my mother's stone. "Child of God, Beloved Mother of AJ," it read. I didn't remember that was what it said and the words sat heavy with me. She was my mother too, yet those words felt true. She was more his mother than mine and the ambivalence I feel about her was as tangible as the crunchy dead grass beneath my feet.
We laughed and cried and prayed together as my Uncle's ashes were put into the ground. I think we all felt the finality of something, ever aware of a unique hole his absence has created inside of each one of us. His wasn't the only hole inside of me. I thought about AJ and my mom, Aaron - my first love, the death of dreams and the unmet longings I carry on the outside and inside of me. It looks like a double-chin and a large belly, and feels like a watercolor mess of tragedy and indescribable joy, splattered and swirled together with darkness and light.
My face was wet with tears as we walked back through the cemetery, the living among the dead. You can't walk on hallowed ground and not feel the gravity of death and
how it has changed you. My heart like a headstone, chiseled and marked
with all of the pain, all the joy and the broken, beautiful pieces of my story that make up who I am.
The clouds were gray and pregnant with rain. Eyes and sky both crying as my husband reached for my hand.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
November 11, 2017
November 1, 2017
Golden Girl
As
I got older, I developed my own sense of style.
There were certainly the necessary faux pas that came with being a
middle-school girl, as I believed black lip liner was a good idea and knee high
socks with every outfit was a trendy choice.
To my mother's dismay, my favorite pair of earrings in the 6th grade
were these lime green parrots I found at a mall jewelry store that
specialized in gaudy plastic accessories. With my backpack purse,
fluffed-up bangs and parrots dangling from my ears, I was quite
something to behold in 1993.
Can we all just go back and give our 12 year-old selves a hug? Bless our hearts.
Over time, my love for both colorful and classic looks evolved as did my
collection of shoes and scarves and my own jewelry box full of accessories. Admittedly, I am somewhat of a jewelry-addict, which
is a trait I obviously inherited from my mother. Though if I’m honest, my jewelry box is not
only a box, but a large frame to house my 60+ pairs of earrings and all of the
necklaces I own. Accessories are like the sprinkles on top of
a perfectly frosted cupcake; they complete and pull together every outfit. Living in south Texas, one has to be creative
in dressing for fall as the cool weather comes and goes and our afternoons get
quite warm. I have found that layering,
finding lightweight cardigans and scarves, and things like ankle pants with
flats or sandals are both functional and stylish for the season here.
I
am always in the mood for new jewelry. As if by magic, there somehow
seems to be room in my jewelry box for more, just as it was with my mother. I live by the motto that one
can never have too many shoes or accessories! My friends over at AUrate, have some beautiful gold pieces that would be the perfect accents to my fall wardrobe. AUrate has pieces that are both modern and timeless,
classic and fresh, with a stunning simplicity in design. Their unique
style and handmade pieces, such as their gorgeous earrings, can dress up an outfit as well as accent casual looks just like mine.
Not only do they have the loveliest designs, but they are a wonderful company that cares about quality, care and giving back. It is so inspiring to read about women who are changing the way business is run by emphasizing the things that matter the most.
There
is still a little girl inside of me who loves all things golden and
sparkly. It's been a while since I've put a ring on every finger and the lime green parrot earrings were retired by the end of middle
school. My grown up self continues to love the sound
of my fancy high heels on a tile floor. And every time I pull together an outfit with the perfect accessories, I'm reminded of my mother and how I hoped to emulate her beauty.
May 12, 2015
Mother's Day and all the feelings
The problem with Mother's Day is that there are so many feelings to feel. I mean really. So many feelings and not adequate time enough to feel them all in the span of the day.
I feel swallowed by these hurricane-like feelings, being blown over by emotions and I have no way to hold them all. Even more so, no one else to help me hold them. And so they leak out. A steady drip, until the dam breaks.
During a dinner with some friends recently, I said "Mother's Day was shit," and I didn't even know that was exactly how I felt about it. But it had to be true, because I was speaking quickly and loudly and sometimes our truest feelings come out when we are just word-vomiting all over the place. Also, when I'm word vomiting, I say things like shit too. But I was disappointed and I felt like I disappointed others and wallowed in all of these disappointing things of the day, and then felt defeated that I let disappointment get the better of me. Damn disappointment.
Just upon waking up on that very day, I knew it was going to be a bad. I could feel it. And the wisest part of my self, advised me to stay home from church. To take the morning to feel the sad things especially so that I could feel them and let them go. But I decided it was more selfish than self-caring and I went to church anyway. And nothing bad happened there. But, I was bombarded again by all of the feelings that are there to feel and realized I wanted to not be feeling them there. I tried my best to swallow tears and choke them down until my throat hurt. But they were leaking - just like feelings tend to do when you don't feel them.
And by lunchtime, the feelings I had somehow thought would go away by this point, weren't going anywhere and the floodgates opened. I ugly cried and had no clue what I was even crying for. The dam broke and I was a mess. And what's weird, is that I couldn't name anything specific.
I cried because it was Mother's Day and my mom isn't here. And I hate how it feels extra awful to be motherless every year in May.
I cried because this day is like this exclusive club. Like you can only celebrate or be celebrated if you have a mom or if you are a mom and I find myself aching for all of the women who don't have either of those things and it makes me not want to be part of whatever club this is to begin with.
I cried because I have friends who hurt deeply on this day. Because their moms have died too and I know what they're feeling. And some because they can't get pregnant and infertility steals their joy and their hope, especially on Mother's Day. And I want them all to know I see them and I love them and I'm hoping with them and I hate that they don't have anyone to call them mommy - because everyone who wants to be called mommy should have their baby and it breaks me because that's not how life happens.
And then I cried because I want to honor all of the mother people in my life and I feel like I do a horrible job of loving them and telling them and showing them and because I still can't stand in the Mother's Day card aisle and not want to weep. Because the feelings.
And then I cry because of the guilt. Because I am a mom. I have these precious boys and being their mom is maybe my deepest joy ever. Tommy and Jacob are living, breathing miracles and I love them so. Yet, I don't know how to be celebrated. I don't know how to embrace that this day could even ever be about me.
Mostly, I want to slap myself in the face and tell myself to get over all of the feelings. To be happy and embrace joy and let myself be celebrated and find a way to choose to feel something greater than the sorrow that I feel. But I don't know how to do that. And perhaps someday, I will have healed beyond all of this and I can feel my feelings better, as if there is such a thing.
All of it - the feelings, the celebrations, the memories, the longings, the guilt, the everything - it all hits and it hits hard. And this year, it knocked me over.
I feel swallowed by these hurricane-like feelings, being blown over by emotions and I have no way to hold them all. Even more so, no one else to help me hold them. And so they leak out. A steady drip, until the dam breaks.
During a dinner with some friends recently, I said "Mother's Day was shit," and I didn't even know that was exactly how I felt about it. But it had to be true, because I was speaking quickly and loudly and sometimes our truest feelings come out when we are just word-vomiting all over the place. Also, when I'm word vomiting, I say things like shit too. But I was disappointed and I felt like I disappointed others and wallowed in all of these disappointing things of the day, and then felt defeated that I let disappointment get the better of me. Damn disappointment.
Just upon waking up on that very day, I knew it was going to be a bad. I could feel it. And the wisest part of my self, advised me to stay home from church. To take the morning to feel the sad things especially so that I could feel them and let them go. But I decided it was more selfish than self-caring and I went to church anyway. And nothing bad happened there. But, I was bombarded again by all of the feelings that are there to feel and realized I wanted to not be feeling them there. I tried my best to swallow tears and choke them down until my throat hurt. But they were leaking - just like feelings tend to do when you don't feel them.
And by lunchtime, the feelings I had somehow thought would go away by this point, weren't going anywhere and the floodgates opened. I ugly cried and had no clue what I was even crying for. The dam broke and I was a mess. And what's weird, is that I couldn't name anything specific.
I cried because it was Mother's Day and my mom isn't here. And I hate how it feels extra awful to be motherless every year in May.
I cried because this day is like this exclusive club. Like you can only celebrate or be celebrated if you have a mom or if you are a mom and I find myself aching for all of the women who don't have either of those things and it makes me not want to be part of whatever club this is to begin with.
I cried because I have friends who hurt deeply on this day. Because their moms have died too and I know what they're feeling. And some because they can't get pregnant and infertility steals their joy and their hope, especially on Mother's Day. And I want them all to know I see them and I love them and I'm hoping with them and I hate that they don't have anyone to call them mommy - because everyone who wants to be called mommy should have their baby and it breaks me because that's not how life happens.
And then I cried because I want to honor all of the mother people in my life and I feel like I do a horrible job of loving them and telling them and showing them and because I still can't stand in the Mother's Day card aisle and not want to weep. Because the feelings.
And then I cry because of the guilt. Because I am a mom. I have these precious boys and being their mom is maybe my deepest joy ever. Tommy and Jacob are living, breathing miracles and I love them so. Yet, I don't know how to be celebrated. I don't know how to embrace that this day could even ever be about me.
Mostly, I want to slap myself in the face and tell myself to get over all of the feelings. To be happy and embrace joy and let myself be celebrated and find a way to choose to feel something greater than the sorrow that I feel. But I don't know how to do that. And perhaps someday, I will have healed beyond all of this and I can feel my feelings better, as if there is such a thing.
All of it - the feelings, the celebrations, the memories, the longings, the guilt, the everything - it all hits and it hits hard. And this year, it knocked me over.
December 1, 2014
Smiling Down
It was when he went up to her, asking to be in her arms. She took him and nestled him under her chin and he relaxed there. She rocked that growing baby boy - the one who rarely settles and stills. Yet, he stilled for her. Maybe somewhere in his little person he knows what a treasure it is to be held by your great-grandmother.
And I am always grasping for pieces of her, trying to hold on to something that I never held on to when she was here.
Sometimes I have these silly notions of heaven that bring me comfort. Though theology might tell me differently, I often like to think of my mom watching me from heave, looking down and peering into my every day life. I can always picture her cheering me on or offering me encouragement. I can see her smile for me, proud of who I am and how much I am like her. And I have to admit, that during these short moments as I watched Jacob surrender into my Grandmother's arms, I imagined that she was somehow there with us and with him and somehow he knows her because he has known my embrace and my Gramma's.
It's Christmas season now. My house is twinkling and my home is decked out with garlands and berries and ribbon and full of the kind of cozy beauty that comes with December. I like to think that she sees. And she is smiling.
November 17, 2013
Treasures
Her handwriting was on those musty old boxes. Her flowing cursive handwriting that was just as fluid and pretty as her singing voice was. I didn't know what was inside, but I knew I couldn't wait until after we had finished running our errands that day to open them.
I tore into the first box on a mission. I suppose every time I've been given something that belonged to my mother, my heart hopes to find some great treasure. Something of hers that will bring comfort to the places inside of me that forever need a mother. I dug through pictures and frames and old cards she had saved - some from me. And at the bottom of the box, in old, faded brown leather, was the treasure of treasures.
Her bible. Brenda L. Hull it read. With a symbol of a dove next to her name.
And a journal. Her journal.
I took them out of the box along with cards and notes and pictures that were sitting at the top. I gathered them up in my arms and tucked them under my chin like a squirrel who had just hit an acorn jackpot and was off to hoard my find somewhere. I stood outside and rifled through things on the hood of Todd's car. As I flipped through her journal, I was flooded with disappointment when I discovered she had only made about ten entries.
She journaled like me, I thought. I always have good intentions for journaling. I want to. I need to. I enjoy it. But I rarely have the time. With work and small children and a hundred other things, who has time to journal?
Todd came outside to see me pouring over my stash on the hood of his car.
"Look what I found," I said. I held up her Bible and looked into his eyes.
And then I lost it. Right into his arms in the middle of the driveway. With the neighborhood boys playing in the middle of the street, and the guy across the way mowing his lawn and his wife carrying in groceries - I sobbed. I wept because having her Bible feels like having a piece of her heart that I always wanted to have. Todd held me and kissed my forehead and let me cry for a few moments.
Later that afternoon, I read her entries. I memorized some of what she wrote. I cried when I read how about her struggles with resting, with trusting God with His best, with asking for miracles. Reading her private thoughts to God felt like getting to have a conversation with her.
That conversation, that old leather Bible - handwritten and underlined and highlighted....oh what treasures for my heart to savor.
I tore into the first box on a mission. I suppose every time I've been given something that belonged to my mother, my heart hopes to find some great treasure. Something of hers that will bring comfort to the places inside of me that forever need a mother. I dug through pictures and frames and old cards she had saved - some from me. And at the bottom of the box, in old, faded brown leather, was the treasure of treasures.
Her bible. Brenda L. Hull it read. With a symbol of a dove next to her name.
And a journal. Her journal.
She journaled like me, I thought. I always have good intentions for journaling. I want to. I need to. I enjoy it. But I rarely have the time. With work and small children and a hundred other things, who has time to journal?
Todd came outside to see me pouring over my stash on the hood of his car.
"Look what I found," I said. I held up her Bible and looked into his eyes.
And then I lost it. Right into his arms in the middle of the driveway. With the neighborhood boys playing in the middle of the street, and the guy across the way mowing his lawn and his wife carrying in groceries - I sobbed. I wept because having her Bible feels like having a piece of her heart that I always wanted to have. Todd held me and kissed my forehead and let me cry for a few moments.
Later that afternoon, I read her entries. I memorized some of what she wrote. I cried when I read how about her struggles with resting, with trusting God with His best, with asking for miracles. Reading her private thoughts to God felt like getting to have a conversation with her.
That conversation, that old leather Bible - handwritten and underlined and highlighted....oh what treasures for my heart to savor.
August 13, 2013
"I loved you like this"
Once in a while, I feel this enormous unfillable void. The one left by my mother. It hurts and aches and I don't even know that's what it is until I stop and listen to my heart and pay attention to what is going on inside of me. Grief has a way of sneaking up on you. Of always being there and voicing itself just when you think it's grown quiet.
I find myself wondering how long has it been since I felt her touch, since I heard her say my name, since she gave me a warm, motherly smile. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of days gone by.
Most of my life was lived believing she never loved me. And I know now that she did, but it was hard for her to show me - she never did that well. My story has been shaped by both her beauty and her brokenness. But my heart believes that if she were alive today that our relationship would work. That there might be normal mother-daughter tensions and differences, but we would be honest and kind and real. We would have what we always wanted to share together.
Still though, the ache remains. The parts of me that find myself wishing she could be here. I wish I could remember what it felt like to have a mom. I wish I could know what it felt like to be loved by her. I wish and I wish and I wish.
Then in a moment, cradling my baby boy who falls asleep in my arms, I brush a finger across his face. I kiss his forehead. I whisper I love you even though he sleeps. And I begin to cry. Because it's there that I see her face for me - compassion and love in her eyes, nodding yes. Yes, I did this with you. I loved you like this. Yes, you were loved by me. You are loved by me.
An unremembered memory. But one that I know exists. One of my own mother cradling me in her arms doing the very same thing with me as a baby. Reminding me that she too loved me as much as I love my own little one. Perhaps all of this is simply how I find comfort in my grief, of missing her and living life without my mother. But perhaps it's more. Maybe there is something real, some kind of truth to what comes to my heart in those moments.
Either way, I find comfort. Joy even.
And suddenly, just like that, the ache turns into a cup overflowed.
I find myself wondering how long has it been since I felt her touch, since I heard her say my name, since she gave me a warm, motherly smile. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of days gone by.
Most of my life was lived believing she never loved me. And I know now that she did, but it was hard for her to show me - she never did that well. My story has been shaped by both her beauty and her brokenness. But my heart believes that if she were alive today that our relationship would work. That there might be normal mother-daughter tensions and differences, but we would be honest and kind and real. We would have what we always wanted to share together.
Still though, the ache remains. The parts of me that find myself wishing she could be here. I wish I could remember what it felt like to have a mom. I wish I could know what it felt like to be loved by her. I wish and I wish and I wish.
Then in a moment, cradling my baby boy who falls asleep in my arms, I brush a finger across his face. I kiss his forehead. I whisper I love you even though he sleeps. And I begin to cry. Because it's there that I see her face for me - compassion and love in her eyes, nodding yes. Yes, I did this with you. I loved you like this. Yes, you were loved by me. You are loved by me.
An unremembered memory. But one that I know exists. One of my own mother cradling me in her arms doing the very same thing with me as a baby. Reminding me that she too loved me as much as I love my own little one. Perhaps all of this is simply how I find comfort in my grief, of missing her and living life without my mother. But perhaps it's more. Maybe there is something real, some kind of truth to what comes to my heart in those moments.
Either way, I find comfort. Joy even.
And suddenly, just like that, the ache turns into a cup overflowed.
May 13, 2013
Day 13: A Mother's Day apology
Today's prompt: Issue a public apology.
I'm sorry I don't love Mother's Day. I feel like I should - after all, I am a mother myself. It's just not my favorite day. Most of the time, I wish it could be skipped.
Mother's Day evokes ambivalence for me. It's a holiday that is full of so much emotion as it carries the potential for so much joy and so much pain all at the same time. Even though I am a mom myself, the day never feels easy or only happy or sweet. Perhaps it's my attitude or maybe it's just my tender heart that feels all that there is to feel on such a day.
It's always hard to navigate through the day. Allowing myself to be honored and enjoyed by my husband and children. Celebrating the moms and grand-moms in my life. And feeling the swirling chaos of all my heart holds on such a day.
This year, my heart felt the enormity of having two children in my arms this year. TWO. For some reason, it feels like so many more than one. And yesterday, my heart and my arms were full. My cup runneth over. There is not a day that goes by, that I don't thank God for giving me these two boys to raise. I love them so.
But with all of the joy, there is the pain of not having my own mom here too. Of feeling extra mother-less, because my Robin and my mother-in-law and the other "like-a-mom's" in my life can ever fill that void or take that pain away. They're not supposed to.
I remember on several occasions, long before I had my boys, where I would be sitting in church and the pastor would ask all the mothers in the auditorium to stand so they could be applauded. And it wasn't the recognition or the applause that bothered me. It was the women, the few, that remained seated.
What was their story? Single? Engaged? Newlyweds? Had they maybe lost their child? Or could they not conceive? Were they struggling and hoping and waiting for a positive pregnancy test? How did it feel for them to remain seated and not stand with the other women? Shouldn't they, shouldn't we ALL stand?
Mother's day to the childless, is a hard day. I remember. While in the last few years, I have learned that my original OBYGN from years ago gave me some lousy information about my body and the part about "never being able to have my own babies" (obviously inaccurate) - I do remember being one of those few women seated then. Hoping I would have someone call me mommy someday as if I had to wait to be chosen for motherhood.
I have a precious, dear friend who is waiting - trying and hoping and every month that goes by without a pregnancy, tears are cried and I cry them with her. I squeezed her hand and hugged her hard yesterday, knowing how brave and courageous she was. To show up and be at church yesterday amidst the mamas and the babies and all of the Mother's day hoopla.
Another dear friend is like me - motherless. Even though her mom has been gone almost as long as mine has, this year hit her hard. She felt grief in new ways and though she had three beautiful children at her side, part of her heart was empty and hurting.
Maybe I wish that the rest of the world could embrace every woman on this day - not just the ones who have literally birthed children. That every single woman - single, married, barren, childless, motherless - whatever it may be, that they would be celebrated as mothers. Recognized for who they were created to be.
Every woman is a mother. Every woman mothers - she nourishes, she nurtures, she cares, she loves, she does things that matter. My heart wishes every woman could not only feel the pain that they carry, but some joy too - that regardless of who does or doesn't wake up and call them mommy every day - that they are worthy of just as much celebration and applause and recognition.
A few years ago, I decided that if I ever found myself in a church again where the mamas were asked to stand and be recognized, that I would stay seated. I want to sit with every woman who hurts, who waits, who wonders, who hopes for the future - those mothers are the ones my heart feels most like on a day like Mother's Day.
I'm sorry I can't jump on the Happy Mother's Day train. I'm sorry I don't really love Mother's Day very much.
But I am more sorry for any and every woman who wants a child and doesn't have them - who goes through the everyday without someone to call them mommy, to rock to sleep, to beg to make them waffles or makes toy car messes on your floor. I am so, so sorry.
I am more sorry for any woman, any child, who can't pick up the phone to wish her mom a happy day, or has no one to send flowers to, or make breakfast in bed or take out to lunch. Who feels that loneliness and ache and void.
To you, to us, I am so, very sorry.
I'm sorry I don't love Mother's Day. I feel like I should - after all, I am a mother myself. It's just not my favorite day. Most of the time, I wish it could be skipped.
Mother's Day evokes ambivalence for me. It's a holiday that is full of so much emotion as it carries the potential for so much joy and so much pain all at the same time. Even though I am a mom myself, the day never feels easy or only happy or sweet. Perhaps it's my attitude or maybe it's just my tender heart that feels all that there is to feel on such a day.
It's always hard to navigate through the day. Allowing myself to be honored and enjoyed by my husband and children. Celebrating the moms and grand-moms in my life. And feeling the swirling chaos of all my heart holds on such a day.
This year, my heart felt the enormity of having two children in my arms this year. TWO. For some reason, it feels like so many more than one. And yesterday, my heart and my arms were full. My cup runneth over. There is not a day that goes by, that I don't thank God for giving me these two boys to raise. I love them so.
I remember on several occasions, long before I had my boys, where I would be sitting in church and the pastor would ask all the mothers in the auditorium to stand so they could be applauded. And it wasn't the recognition or the applause that bothered me. It was the women, the few, that remained seated.
What was their story? Single? Engaged? Newlyweds? Had they maybe lost their child? Or could they not conceive? Were they struggling and hoping and waiting for a positive pregnancy test? How did it feel for them to remain seated and not stand with the other women? Shouldn't they, shouldn't we ALL stand?
Mother's day to the childless, is a hard day. I remember. While in the last few years, I have learned that my original OBYGN from years ago gave me some lousy information about my body and the part about "never being able to have my own babies" (obviously inaccurate) - I do remember being one of those few women seated then. Hoping I would have someone call me mommy someday as if I had to wait to be chosen for motherhood.
I have a precious, dear friend who is waiting - trying and hoping and every month that goes by without a pregnancy, tears are cried and I cry them with her. I squeezed her hand and hugged her hard yesterday, knowing how brave and courageous she was. To show up and be at church yesterday amidst the mamas and the babies and all of the Mother's day hoopla.
Another dear friend is like me - motherless. Even though her mom has been gone almost as long as mine has, this year hit her hard. She felt grief in new ways and though she had three beautiful children at her side, part of her heart was empty and hurting.
Maybe I wish that the rest of the world could embrace every woman on this day - not just the ones who have literally birthed children. That every single woman - single, married, barren, childless, motherless - whatever it may be, that they would be celebrated as mothers. Recognized for who they were created to be.
Every woman is a mother. Every woman mothers - she nourishes, she nurtures, she cares, she loves, she does things that matter. My heart wishes every woman could not only feel the pain that they carry, but some joy too - that regardless of who does or doesn't wake up and call them mommy every day - that they are worthy of just as much celebration and applause and recognition.
A few years ago, I decided that if I ever found myself in a church again where the mamas were asked to stand and be recognized, that I would stay seated. I want to sit with every woman who hurts, who waits, who wonders, who hopes for the future - those mothers are the ones my heart feels most like on a day like Mother's Day.
I'm sorry I can't jump on the Happy Mother's Day train. I'm sorry I don't really love Mother's Day very much.
But I am more sorry for any and every woman who wants a child and doesn't have them - who goes through the everyday without someone to call them mommy, to rock to sleep, to beg to make them waffles or makes toy car messes on your floor. I am so, so sorry.
I am more sorry for any woman, any child, who can't pick up the phone to wish her mom a happy day, or has no one to send flowers to, or make breakfast in bed or take out to lunch. Who feels that loneliness and ache and void.
To you, to us, I am so, very sorry.
May 7, 2013
Day 7: Afraid
Today's prompt: What are you afraid of?
Ever since she died, there has been this quiet, gnawing fear that I would be like her. That somehow we would have the exact same story and I would share her fate. I've always been afraid that life would knock me down and I would never be able to get back up again. That depression or alcohol, some big affair - something....something would come for me and take me out.
Sometimes I feel myself waiting for it. This big thing. A piece of bad news or some awful life-altering tragedy. It feels less scary if I'm anticipating the next heartache to come my way. It's torture though to live in that kind of expectancy.
Maybe when your mother dies suddenly in her sleep, it's normal to be afraid of those things. Maybe it's common to think and live that way. When you watch someone drink themselves to death and self-destruct before your very eyes and then suddenly they're gone - no goodbyes, no last words. Could it be me too that would leave my children to live without a mother, to live with questions, to live with their own fears that they too could end up like me?
The thing is though, I don't think she would want me to be afraid. I think she would want me to learn from her - from all the right, all the wrong, all the tragedy and heartache. I think she would be proud of me, especially in the places I don't want to emulate her. Where I'm careful about alcohol - how I'll never drink it on a bad day or in a bad mood. Where I fight hard for my marriage and my feelings and my heart because I won't settle and because I believe in more. How I don't try and pretend to have everything together because I believe real strength is in our weakness and neediness.
I think she would be proud - I think she is proud - of the places where I have had the strength to do the things she couldn't. There have been times when I have imagined her face for me, cheering me on, saying "Go baby, go! You can do this!"
Nothing else can bring me to the kind of tears I have when I imagine what it will be like to reunite with her. When heaven is home and we're both there together. I've always imagined seeing her face from a distance - as if she's been waiting for me. And we don't need to speak a single word about anything - the hurt, the past, all the years I lived without her. We'll just somehow know it all. That it was all okay. Somehow it was all part of some plan that never made sense until that moment. It's that moment - that first instant of seeing her face there - my heart could burst with the pain and the hope I feel for how badly I want to have that.
It comes and goes, this fear. There have been times where the fear has been crippling. Where I have felt completely terrified. And maybe it has felt that scary to think I could end up like her, because of how painful it was to have gone through it.
But, most days I live in confidence and security - that while I am so much like her, I'm not her. That what is true is that her story was her own and I'll have mine. That how we live life is a series of choices. I think she would want me to know that I get to choose.
Maybe I'm starting to learn that to honor her life and story is to not be afraid of it. To acknowledge how it impacted me. And to love others from those wounded places.
Ever since she died, there has been this quiet, gnawing fear that I would be like her. That somehow we would have the exact same story and I would share her fate. I've always been afraid that life would knock me down and I would never be able to get back up again. That depression or alcohol, some big affair - something....something would come for me and take me out.
Sometimes I feel myself waiting for it. This big thing. A piece of bad news or some awful life-altering tragedy. It feels less scary if I'm anticipating the next heartache to come my way. It's torture though to live in that kind of expectancy.
Maybe when your mother dies suddenly in her sleep, it's normal to be afraid of those things. Maybe it's common to think and live that way. When you watch someone drink themselves to death and self-destruct before your very eyes and then suddenly they're gone - no goodbyes, no last words. Could it be me too that would leave my children to live without a mother, to live with questions, to live with their own fears that they too could end up like me?
The thing is though, I don't think she would want me to be afraid. I think she would want me to learn from her - from all the right, all the wrong, all the tragedy and heartache. I think she would be proud of me, especially in the places I don't want to emulate her. Where I'm careful about alcohol - how I'll never drink it on a bad day or in a bad mood. Where I fight hard for my marriage and my feelings and my heart because I won't settle and because I believe in more. How I don't try and pretend to have everything together because I believe real strength is in our weakness and neediness.
I think she would be proud - I think she is proud - of the places where I have had the strength to do the things she couldn't. There have been times when I have imagined her face for me, cheering me on, saying "Go baby, go! You can do this!"
Nothing else can bring me to the kind of tears I have when I imagine what it will be like to reunite with her. When heaven is home and we're both there together. I've always imagined seeing her face from a distance - as if she's been waiting for me. And we don't need to speak a single word about anything - the hurt, the past, all the years I lived without her. We'll just somehow know it all. That it was all okay. Somehow it was all part of some plan that never made sense until that moment. It's that moment - that first instant of seeing her face there - my heart could burst with the pain and the hope I feel for how badly I want to have that.
It comes and goes, this fear. There have been times where the fear has been crippling. Where I have felt completely terrified. And maybe it has felt that scary to think I could end up like her, because of how painful it was to have gone through it.
But, most days I live in confidence and security - that while I am so much like her, I'm not her. That what is true is that her story was her own and I'll have mine. That how we live life is a series of choices. I think she would want me to know that I get to choose.
Maybe I'm starting to learn that to honor her life and story is to not be afraid of it. To acknowledge how it impacted me. And to love others from those wounded places.
December 28, 2012
A letter for mom
Mom,
You missed my first great love and you weren't there when he died and I thought I might too.
You missed my nineteenth birthday and my twenty-sixth and my thirty-first and all of those in between.
You weren't there when my shady boyfriend stole all of my money and left me owing thousands.
You missed seeing me off to my amazing trip to Israel.
You weren't here when I bleached my hair blonde and did a million wretched things because I was hurting so badly and was so very angry at God.
You weren't here to watch me meet Todd and fall in love with a man I never expected to fall in love with. You missed the night we got engaged and celebrated downtown, my five-stone diamond ring sparkling as bright as our eyes did.
You missed my bridal showers and my wedding day and seeing me in a wedding dress that I didn't really like.
You haven't been here to talk to about marriage and what your experience was like. You've missed watching me struggle and flourish in my own.
You weren't here when I was told I had PCOS and that it would be a "miracle" if I ever got pregnant. You missed it when I would cry every month my period would arrive and my hopes for having a baby would be crushed.
You missed it when that hundredth pregnancy test finally came back positive and I got to announce that finally, at last, I was going to be a mommy. You weren't here to get to be a Grandma.
You missed my first pregnancy and now my second. You haven't been here to ask questions and put me at ease when I want to panic about every strange thing my body is doing.
You haven't been here to see the FREE me.
You weren't here to see me dance my ass off for the very first time. I danced and danced for hours and it was glorious. And now I dance any chance I can get.
You've missed seeing how God would bring healing to my heart. How He would give me peace and restore relationships and make things new.
You've missed countless family gatherings and trips to the zoo and watching me freak out about finding my first few gray hairs.
You haven't been here for twelve Mother's Days and thirteen Christmases.
Perhaps you can see and you have seen everything from Heaven. I like to think that you can look down and have a view in to my life - or that you have some way of knowing. It brings my hurting heart comfort to think about what your face would be like for me when I struggle or I'm sad or when I'm experiencing victory or feeling joy. The deepest parts of me know that for all I've done and been through that you are so very proud. And you should be proud too - because you had a hand in shaping me.
But you haven't been here. You've missed out and so have I. You've missed watching me grow into the woman I am today. There will forever be a void - a hole that you left and no one else can fill. What is true is that I was deeply impacted by your life and your story and all that you were and weren't to me - I still am. You may be gone and you may have been gone for thirteen years, but your memory and the place that I hold it in my heart is still very much with me. And I hope that it always is.
Missing you this day. I ache for Heaven and the moment I finally see you again. When there will be no more missing out and no more missing you.
Love,
Jenn
You missed my first great love and you weren't there when he died and I thought I might too.
You missed my nineteenth birthday and my twenty-sixth and my thirty-first and all of those in between.
You weren't there when my shady boyfriend stole all of my money and left me owing thousands.
You missed seeing me off to my amazing trip to Israel.
You weren't here when I bleached my hair blonde and did a million wretched things because I was hurting so badly and was so very angry at God.
You weren't here to watch me meet Todd and fall in love with a man I never expected to fall in love with. You missed the night we got engaged and celebrated downtown, my five-stone diamond ring sparkling as bright as our eyes did.
You missed my bridal showers and my wedding day and seeing me in a wedding dress that I didn't really like.
You haven't been here to talk to about marriage and what your experience was like. You've missed watching me struggle and flourish in my own.
You weren't here when I was told I had PCOS and that it would be a "miracle" if I ever got pregnant. You missed it when I would cry every month my period would arrive and my hopes for having a baby would be crushed.
You missed it when that hundredth pregnancy test finally came back positive and I got to announce that finally, at last, I was going to be a mommy. You weren't here to get to be a Grandma.
You missed my first pregnancy and now my second. You haven't been here to ask questions and put me at ease when I want to panic about every strange thing my body is doing.
You haven't been here to see the FREE me.
You weren't here to see me dance my ass off for the very first time. I danced and danced for hours and it was glorious. And now I dance any chance I can get.
You've missed seeing how God would bring healing to my heart. How He would give me peace and restore relationships and make things new.
You've missed countless family gatherings and trips to the zoo and watching me freak out about finding my first few gray hairs.
You haven't been here for twelve Mother's Days and thirteen Christmases.
Perhaps you can see and you have seen everything from Heaven. I like to think that you can look down and have a view in to my life - or that you have some way of knowing. It brings my hurting heart comfort to think about what your face would be like for me when I struggle or I'm sad or when I'm experiencing victory or feeling joy. The deepest parts of me know that for all I've done and been through that you are so very proud. And you should be proud too - because you had a hand in shaping me.
But you haven't been here. You've missed out and so have I. You've missed watching me grow into the woman I am today. There will forever be a void - a hole that you left and no one else can fill. What is true is that I was deeply impacted by your life and your story and all that you were and weren't to me - I still am. You may be gone and you may have been gone for thirteen years, but your memory and the place that I hold it in my heart is still very much with me. And I hope that it always is.
Missing you this day. I ache for Heaven and the moment I finally see you again. When there will be no more missing out and no more missing you.
Love,
Jenn
December 26, 2012
The Shift
The day after Christmas is my very least favorite day of every year. Regardless of whether or not I have to work (and I do this year), the day just feels like a drag. All of the merry-making has come to a close and the decorations and leftover sugar cookies feel suffocating rather than inviting. Perhaps because I'm pregnant and I'm officially ready to get everything in order for Jake, I'm especially ready to usher out the holly this year.
Yesterday was....okay. Christmas day itself always seems to be a bit anticlimactic. It was full of wonder and sweet memories - especially with Tommy. Yet it left me longing for more too - for more meaningful and reflective times. I seem to always miss what isn't there. I was feeling lousy too seeing as I'm in now for round three of this awful congestion and cough thing that has been with me now for a good chunk of my pregnancy.
There are a few days at the very end of the year though that bring with it this great shift within my spirit. December 28th is the anniversary of my mom's death and it's something that I have always felt with great depth. My soul feels sad and unsettled and it was last year that I recognized that this great dark cloud, this shifting, comes not on her death date or the day after Christmas....but on Christmas day itself.
Last year was the first year that I really took care of myself in this familiar darkness that I find myself in every year. Instead of eating and numbing out to my pain though I let myself cry. I watched a sad movie and took a long bath and I wrote some. I made myself a mug of hot coffee and I let myself sit in quiet and feel and just be. In addition to that, I accepted an invitation by my step-mom last year to go over and sit with her and we ended up having the most honest, healing conversation we've ever had in all of the years of knowing each other.
Grief remains the same. The loss of my mother and all that we didn't have when she was alive and all of the memories that never will be, they weigh heaviest on me these few days every year - so close to Christmas and times that are full of so much fun and memory-making. But how I respond to it is changing.
I'm learning to lean in to it, press in. To feel what is there instead of ignoring it and pushing it away. I'm learning to acknowledge it and invite it in and let it run its course. It's taken awhile, but I'm figuring out how to care for myself when grief comes - especially over the memory of my mom. It's okay to be tender and vulnerable and it's okay to be that way even if it's been thirteen years since I last saw her face.
In a few days, the cloud too will pass. My home will breathe new and clean with Christmas put away and the preparations for my second child will be well underway. And I will have felt what I needed to and been kind to my heart. Because my Jesus has brought healing to me even though He has never taken away the sting and ache of grief.
And another shift, another wave, another page will turn.
Yesterday was....okay. Christmas day itself always seems to be a bit anticlimactic. It was full of wonder and sweet memories - especially with Tommy. Yet it left me longing for more too - for more meaningful and reflective times. I seem to always miss what isn't there. I was feeling lousy too seeing as I'm in now for round three of this awful congestion and cough thing that has been with me now for a good chunk of my pregnancy.
There are a few days at the very end of the year though that bring with it this great shift within my spirit. December 28th is the anniversary of my mom's death and it's something that I have always felt with great depth. My soul feels sad and unsettled and it was last year that I recognized that this great dark cloud, this shifting, comes not on her death date or the day after Christmas....but on Christmas day itself.
Last year was the first year that I really took care of myself in this familiar darkness that I find myself in every year. Instead of eating and numbing out to my pain though I let myself cry. I watched a sad movie and took a long bath and I wrote some. I made myself a mug of hot coffee and I let myself sit in quiet and feel and just be. In addition to that, I accepted an invitation by my step-mom last year to go over and sit with her and we ended up having the most honest, healing conversation we've ever had in all of the years of knowing each other.
Grief remains the same. The loss of my mother and all that we didn't have when she was alive and all of the memories that never will be, they weigh heaviest on me these few days every year - so close to Christmas and times that are full of so much fun and memory-making. But how I respond to it is changing.
I'm learning to lean in to it, press in. To feel what is there instead of ignoring it and pushing it away. I'm learning to acknowledge it and invite it in and let it run its course. It's taken awhile, but I'm figuring out how to care for myself when grief comes - especially over the memory of my mom. It's okay to be tender and vulnerable and it's okay to be that way even if it's been thirteen years since I last saw her face.
In a few days, the cloud too will pass. My home will breathe new and clean with Christmas put away and the preparations for my second child will be well underway. And I will have felt what I needed to and been kind to my heart. Because my Jesus has brought healing to me even though He has never taken away the sting and ache of grief.
And another shift, another wave, another page will turn.
August 21, 2012
Fear
One of my greatest fears is that I would have my mother's story. That I would share her fate because I am so much like her and there is so much of her in me.
We share similar facial features and singing voices and handwriting. We have the same passion for autumn and holidays and nature's beauty. I have found her in my playfulness and how tenderhearted I am. She is in my decorating and I hear her when I wear a pair of high heels, clicking through the kitchen before we leave for church.
Yet, I've long feared that someday I would face the things she had to face and make the same choices that she did. Leaving a path of destruction and wounds to others. Self destructing, leaving my children without a mother and with a web of lies they would battle for the rest of their lives.
I've been this way since she died twelve Decembers ago. It's exhausting to live this deeply in fear though it's not always this intense. Most days I believe that I am more. That I am not her and that I won't share her story or her fate. That there is a strength in me that she didn't have. That I'm different, because I am.
But it was my mom's second child that changed everything. It changed my story. It changed our relationship. It changed my parent's marriage. My brother being born with so many needs, so many health problems. I have often feared that I too would have a child like him. And what would I do? How would I handle it? Would I neglect my firstborn like she did of me? Would I be able to handle it and live through it? Would my marriage erode? Would it all finally do me in?
It's where I've been sitting for weeks. Trying to take my fears to God but feeling no peace or rest about anything. Begging him to let everything be okay. Wondering what I would do if I lost this baby, if they were premature, if they were sick and needed special care. I've been wrestling and struggling here. And I know it's bad for my health and well-being and baby and yet I keep on in it all.
Fear and worry woke me up the night before last. I felt panicked and scared. Fear seems to be following me around, robbing me of the joy I have of carrying life in me again. And God's voice seems to be getting lost in all of my anxiety and worry.
I don't really know what to do with any of this. It's where I am but far from where I want to be.
And because I write about my journey and the parts that I often wish weren't part of it, this was something I needed to put into writing.
We share similar facial features and singing voices and handwriting. We have the same passion for autumn and holidays and nature's beauty. I have found her in my playfulness and how tenderhearted I am. She is in my decorating and I hear her when I wear a pair of high heels, clicking through the kitchen before we leave for church.
Yet, I've long feared that someday I would face the things she had to face and make the same choices that she did. Leaving a path of destruction and wounds to others. Self destructing, leaving my children without a mother and with a web of lies they would battle for the rest of their lives.
I've been this way since she died twelve Decembers ago. It's exhausting to live this deeply in fear though it's not always this intense. Most days I believe that I am more. That I am not her and that I won't share her story or her fate. That there is a strength in me that she didn't have. That I'm different, because I am.
But it was my mom's second child that changed everything. It changed my story. It changed our relationship. It changed my parent's marriage. My brother being born with so many needs, so many health problems. I have often feared that I too would have a child like him. And what would I do? How would I handle it? Would I neglect my firstborn like she did of me? Would I be able to handle it and live through it? Would my marriage erode? Would it all finally do me in?
It's where I've been sitting for weeks. Trying to take my fears to God but feeling no peace or rest about anything. Begging him to let everything be okay. Wondering what I would do if I lost this baby, if they were premature, if they were sick and needed special care. I've been wrestling and struggling here. And I know it's bad for my health and well-being and baby and yet I keep on in it all.
Fear and worry woke me up the night before last. I felt panicked and scared. Fear seems to be following me around, robbing me of the joy I have of carrying life in me again. And God's voice seems to be getting lost in all of my anxiety and worry.
I don't really know what to do with any of this. It's where I am but far from where I want to be.
And because I write about my journey and the parts that I often wish weren't part of it, this was something I needed to put into writing.
July 20, 2012
Carne guisada
Carne guisada is on the menu for dinner tonight. It's like a mexican stew with spicy meat, onions and tomatoes and it's typically served with tortillas, spanish rice and beans.
This particular meal is something I remember my mom making quite a bit when I was growing up. Anytime I have it bubbling over the stove, it smells like my childhood Sundays after church when my dad would be listening to music loudly in the living room and my brother and I would relentlessly bug each other until it was time to sit down as a family and eat.
To this day, I still pick out the onions and tomatoes, because ew. But the smell of it cooking reminds me of her. How her beauty often showed up in the kitchen over simmering pots and breads freshly baked and cookies cooling on sheets of wax paper. How she always made it a point for us to sit around the table together as a family - that was her heart even if those times didn't end up being meaningful. She wanted us to be together, to be one.
She's been on my heart lately.
Sometimes I wonder what she would think of who I've become. Who I married, what my life looks like. Who I am - a self-taught bookkeeper, a ministry leader, a working mom, an only-on-Sundays singer, a deep feeler, an avid party thrower.
The wounded parts of me wonder if she would be critical and ugly to me about my weight. If she would find something to be jealous of me for because it had always felt that way. If she would be disappointed that I never made it in to the opera scene. She had missed her chance and she didn't want me to miss mine. But, I did.
The parts of my heart that are the truest though - the parts God has touched with His grace and healing - those parts of me know. I know she would be proud. I know she would give me kind guidance. I know she would sit and talk with me about the past when I felt like I needed too. I know she would share her heart with me. And I know she would tell me that my Carne guidsada tasted better than hers, even if it wasn't true.
There are a handful of things that I have that used to be hers. I treasure them, maybe more than you should treasure belongings. But I do because they are all that I have left of a woman that I have gotten to know more in death than I knew in life. They're my only pieces left of a life that seems lived ages ago when she was present in it. When I had a mom.
Her cookbook is one of them. It's pages are full of her beautiful, flowing handwriting. It contains the recipes that still make me grimace, like Chicken and Wine. And others that bring back memories or remind me of the holidays like Applesauce Spice Cake and Snicker Doodles.
Taking it out, looking at her handwritten pages, and making one of her meals makes her feel just a little bit closer. Like she's right there. Tearfully smiling at how I carry on her memory and how much I understand now that I'm a grown woman and a wife and a mother.
Some days there's just this undeniable ache. And I don't even know what it is until I give myself some space and quiet to know where it's coming from. But it's her. It's being motherless and her not being here and how some days I just feel that absence deeply.
Tonight though, I will sit around the kitchen table with my little family and eat a meal that I once shared with her. Those are the moments that it feels like an honor and privilege, to not just live with the ache of missing her.
But to be living.
She would be happy and proud just to see me really living.
This particular meal is something I remember my mom making quite a bit when I was growing up. Anytime I have it bubbling over the stove, it smells like my childhood Sundays after church when my dad would be listening to music loudly in the living room and my brother and I would relentlessly bug each other until it was time to sit down as a family and eat.
To this day, I still pick out the onions and tomatoes, because ew. But the smell of it cooking reminds me of her. How her beauty often showed up in the kitchen over simmering pots and breads freshly baked and cookies cooling on sheets of wax paper. How she always made it a point for us to sit around the table together as a family - that was her heart even if those times didn't end up being meaningful. She wanted us to be together, to be one.
She's been on my heart lately.
Sometimes I wonder what she would think of who I've become. Who I married, what my life looks like. Who I am - a self-taught bookkeeper, a ministry leader, a working mom, an only-on-Sundays singer, a deep feeler, an avid party thrower.
The wounded parts of me wonder if she would be critical and ugly to me about my weight. If she would find something to be jealous of me for because it had always felt that way. If she would be disappointed that I never made it in to the opera scene. She had missed her chance and she didn't want me to miss mine. But, I did.
The parts of my heart that are the truest though - the parts God has touched with His grace and healing - those parts of me know. I know she would be proud. I know she would give me kind guidance. I know she would sit and talk with me about the past when I felt like I needed too. I know she would share her heart with me. And I know she would tell me that my Carne guidsada tasted better than hers, even if it wasn't true.
There are a handful of things that I have that used to be hers. I treasure them, maybe more than you should treasure belongings. But I do because they are all that I have left of a woman that I have gotten to know more in death than I knew in life. They're my only pieces left of a life that seems lived ages ago when she was present in it. When I had a mom.
Her cookbook is one of them. It's pages are full of her beautiful, flowing handwriting. It contains the recipes that still make me grimace, like Chicken and Wine. And others that bring back memories or remind me of the holidays like Applesauce Spice Cake and Snicker Doodles.
Taking it out, looking at her handwritten pages, and making one of her meals makes her feel just a little bit closer. Like she's right there. Tearfully smiling at how I carry on her memory and how much I understand now that I'm a grown woman and a wife and a mother.
Tonight though, I will sit around the kitchen table with my little family and eat a meal that I once shared with her. Those are the moments that it feels like an honor and privilege, to not just live with the ache of missing her.
But to be living.
She would be happy and proud just to see me really living.
May 13, 2012
What I learned from my mother
I learned most of what I know about cooking and baking from my mother. She taught me that measurements were crucial for baking, but not as much when I was cooking a meal. To trust my gut when adding seasonings to a dish and how to substitute ingredients. Mistakes aren't as easily noticed in a meal and most things can be fixed. But baking isn't very forgiving and it needs carefulness.
I learned how to wear make-up by watching how she applied her own. She showed me how to wear just the right amount to highlight what was already beautiful.
I learned that the best mornings were the ones where she could put on her flannel robe and drink coffee and watch Regis and Kathi Lee.
I learned how to sing from deep in my core. She taught me how to project my voice. And I always wanted to sing like her because simply, she was a power-house.
I learned how to make holidays special and magical. The house always lit up with wonder after she was done.
I learned that the best hot cocoa was made slowly on the stove. It felt like a wonderful surprise to come home from school to find her making some for me. The handful of times that she did that made me know what feeling truly special and cared for was all about.
I learned that I didn't want a marriage like hers. I wanted more than what she had.
I learned that my body was the only thing of value to men. She taught me this on a regular basis and it has had far-reaching impact on my story.
I learned what it felt like to be loved conditionally.
I learned that if I ever had more than one child, I didn't want to have a favorite.
I learned how to obsess over my body, how to diet and that my looks were the most important thing.
I learned that it's possible to be wounded by so many things in your life, that it can actually be the death of you.
I've learned that it's still hard to look for Mother's Day cards when your mom is no longer alive. And it's better to take Todd because he can be there to hold me when I break down and cry.
I've learned that I still wake up with the same ache of both wishing she were here and being glad that she isn't.
I've learned that becoming a mom myself has taken some of the sting out of this day for me. Not all of it, but some. This day may always feel bittersweet and that it's okay for it to. Death adds bitterness sometimes.
I've learned that I am so much like her. But I'm stronger than she was and she would be so very proud of that. I like to think she sees me from heaven and she's my biggest cheerleader. When I imagine her face for me, it's brimming with pride and she says things like, "Go baby, go! You can do this! You are so brave!"
I've learned that I'm still learning what it's like to be motherless. What it's like to be a mom as my son grows a little more every day. I'm learning that grief is a forever process. I'm learning how to live with loss and longing, both because of her presence in my life and her absence from it.
I learned how to wear make-up by watching how she applied her own. She showed me how to wear just the right amount to highlight what was already beautiful.
I learned that the best mornings were the ones where she could put on her flannel robe and drink coffee and watch Regis and Kathi Lee.
I learned how to sing from deep in my core. She taught me how to project my voice. And I always wanted to sing like her because simply, she was a power-house.
I learned how to make holidays special and magical. The house always lit up with wonder after she was done.
I learned that the best hot cocoa was made slowly on the stove. It felt like a wonderful surprise to come home from school to find her making some for me. The handful of times that she did that made me know what feeling truly special and cared for was all about.
I learned that I didn't want a marriage like hers. I wanted more than what she had.
I learned that my body was the only thing of value to men. She taught me this on a regular basis and it has had far-reaching impact on my story.
I learned what it felt like to be loved conditionally.
I learned that if I ever had more than one child, I didn't want to have a favorite.
I learned how to obsess over my body, how to diet and that my looks were the most important thing.
I learned that it's possible to be wounded by so many things in your life, that it can actually be the death of you.
I've learned that it's still hard to look for Mother's Day cards when your mom is no longer alive. And it's better to take Todd because he can be there to hold me when I break down and cry.
I've learned that I still wake up with the same ache of both wishing she were here and being glad that she isn't.
I've learned that becoming a mom myself has taken some of the sting out of this day for me. Not all of it, but some. This day may always feel bittersweet and that it's okay for it to. Death adds bitterness sometimes.
I've learned that I am so much like her. But I'm stronger than she was and she would be so very proud of that. I like to think she sees me from heaven and she's my biggest cheerleader. When I imagine her face for me, it's brimming with pride and she says things like, "Go baby, go! You can do this! You are so brave!"
I've learned that I'm still learning what it's like to be motherless. What it's like to be a mom as my son grows a little more every day. I'm learning that grief is a forever process. I'm learning how to live with loss and longing, both because of her presence in my life and her absence from it.
Happy Mother's Day, mom. I miss you.
April 27, 2012
The most important thing
I remember a story my mom told me once about when she was invited to be in a fashion show at her school. She was twelve years old at the time and they asked her to wear something that her Grandmother had made for her by hand. Her mom couldn't afford brand new clothes from the store, so most everything she wore was made from scratch.
I remember her telling me how thrilling it was to be invited. To be a part of something that the "cool" girls were a doing. They even saved her for last in the show. Sadly, it was all a horrible prank. She was asked to be in the show to model how to not dress. She was mocked and ridiculed and utterly humiliated.
That was one of only a handful of stories my mother shared with me about her childhood. That story made me want to cry when she told me then. Even today, writing it out and imaging my mom as that twelve year old girl, excited about a fashion show and then being made fun of publicly, makes me want to lash out and scream at whoever thought this idea up in the first place.
Because of this scene and many others where she grew up hearing about appearance and size and clothing and make-up, my mom was hard on me about how I looked. It was a constant point of conflict. More so, it was a constant place of hurt.
I spent all of my childhood and teen years trying to look good enough. To lose the ten or twenty pounds or whatever amount it was that she thought I needed to lose. Tuck my shirt in the way she wanted. Wear the shade of lip gloss she chose for me.
How I looked on the outside felt like it was the most important thing in the world to her. I was taught that my appearance was where I was most valued.
Sadly, many of the messages she gave me were echoed by other people in my family, by friends and even people at church. Where I have found myself lately in how I am pursuing health and wellness has been difficult. Because really, I don't know how to take my focus off what I look like and put it on what I am doing and the progress I am making regardless of what does or doesn't show up on the outside yet.
The other morning, I received a text message from a sweet friend. She thanked me for sharing some of the deeper and messier parts of my story with her. Because just that day, she decided she was ready to break the silence in her own . She just wanted me to know that.
I felt blown away that my story, and the parts that was referring to, gave her courage to speak. It is my hope that she will live with even more freedom than she had just days ago. I got to play a part in her own story and it felt beautiful and humbling all at the same time.
But something dawned on me though. Somehow, my story in all of it's mess and disgusting, dark places that I often wish weren't a part of who I am, had impact just because I was willing to share it. My freedom invited her to break the silence so she too could experience what I have as God's light has been shed on my past.
I realized that the most important thing I will ever do is not lose the 100+ pounds that I have to lose. The most important goal I will ever reach, my greatest achievement, my biggest successes - none of that is about my weight loss, or health or having some stellar body I see in my dreams.
The most important thing I will ever do and can ever do is share, write, speak, and live fully from my heart. That is where the gospel of Christ is most heard. That is where deepest relationships form and grow. That is where I love well and can be loved well by others too. My heart is what others need. My heart is what matters most.
I often wish my mom were here so we could go back and talk about these things. I wish I could visit that horrible fashion-show scene with her now that I'm a grown woman and could have words for her there. I wish we could talk about why appearance was so important and where she wounded me in that. I wish we could cry together and talk and work through the hard things that made our mother-daughter relationship so tense and strained.
Yet, it's her story too - how she both did and didn't live it out for me - that had impact on my heart. Because of her, and even all of the places she hurt me, helped to shape the woman I am today.
This woman who is learning to live beyond believing that my appearance is where I have value. The woman who shares her heart and invites others to do that. My mom had something, everything to do with that.
And for that, I am incredibly, whole-heartedly grateful.
I remember her telling me how thrilling it was to be invited. To be a part of something that the "cool" girls were a doing. They even saved her for last in the show. Sadly, it was all a horrible prank. She was asked to be in the show to model how to not dress. She was mocked and ridiculed and utterly humiliated.
That was one of only a handful of stories my mother shared with me about her childhood. That story made me want to cry when she told me then. Even today, writing it out and imaging my mom as that twelve year old girl, excited about a fashion show and then being made fun of publicly, makes me want to lash out and scream at whoever thought this idea up in the first place.
Because of this scene and many others where she grew up hearing about appearance and size and clothing and make-up, my mom was hard on me about how I looked. It was a constant point of conflict. More so, it was a constant place of hurt.
I spent all of my childhood and teen years trying to look good enough. To lose the ten or twenty pounds or whatever amount it was that she thought I needed to lose. Tuck my shirt in the way she wanted. Wear the shade of lip gloss she chose for me.
How I looked on the outside felt like it was the most important thing in the world to her. I was taught that my appearance was where I was most valued.
Sadly, many of the messages she gave me were echoed by other people in my family, by friends and even people at church. Where I have found myself lately in how I am pursuing health and wellness has been difficult. Because really, I don't know how to take my focus off what I look like and put it on what I am doing and the progress I am making regardless of what does or doesn't show up on the outside yet.
The other morning, I received a text message from a sweet friend. She thanked me for sharing some of the deeper and messier parts of my story with her. Because just that day, she decided she was ready to break the silence in her own . She just wanted me to know that.
I felt blown away that my story, and the parts that was referring to, gave her courage to speak. It is my hope that she will live with even more freedom than she had just days ago. I got to play a part in her own story and it felt beautiful and humbling all at the same time.
But something dawned on me though. Somehow, my story in all of it's mess and disgusting, dark places that I often wish weren't a part of who I am, had impact just because I was willing to share it. My freedom invited her to break the silence so she too could experience what I have as God's light has been shed on my past.
I realized that the most important thing I will ever do is not lose the 100+ pounds that I have to lose. The most important goal I will ever reach, my greatest achievement, my biggest successes - none of that is about my weight loss, or health or having some stellar body I see in my dreams.
The most important thing I will ever do and can ever do is share, write, speak, and live fully from my heart. That is where the gospel of Christ is most heard. That is where deepest relationships form and grow. That is where I love well and can be loved well by others too. My heart is what others need. My heart is what matters most.
I often wish my mom were here so we could go back and talk about these things. I wish I could visit that horrible fashion-show scene with her now that I'm a grown woman and could have words for her there. I wish we could talk about why appearance was so important and where she wounded me in that. I wish we could cry together and talk and work through the hard things that made our mother-daughter relationship so tense and strained.
Yet, it's her story too - how she both did and didn't live it out for me - that had impact on my heart. Because of her, and even all of the places she hurt me, helped to shape the woman I am today.
This woman who is learning to live beyond believing that my appearance is where I have value. The woman who shares her heart and invites others to do that. My mom had something, everything to do with that.
And for that, I am incredibly, whole-heartedly grateful.
December 28, 2011
Journey Back #3 - Twelve Years
Christmas Eve was the last night I ever saw my mother alive.
She gave me these ugly wooden cat book-ends as a gift that year. She thought I could use them at school to hold my books up or something. They were lame and I made sure she knew that I thought so. Her gift made me angry. She didn't know me. She didn't even care to know me. She didn't know I hadn't liked anything to do with cats since I was eleven.
I was eighteen now and all grown up. Had she missed that? Probably. She had missed a lot the last two years.
My mom smelled like a bar that night. I had grown to hate that smell and I had grown to hate her too. It was evident that she was trying to act cool. She wore this fancy black dress that hung loosely on her thinning frame. She was trying to pretend that she was okay and that she was really happy with her boyfriend and that it wasn't awkward that we were all there together.
Days later, I was with my sister over at my Gramma's house for a visit. I was between semesters studying vocal performance at school. Christmas was over and I was finding things to do until I was able to get back on campus again. Being back in San Antonio felt painful and hard. It reminded me of how sick my mom was and how miserable I felt. Going away to school felt like the greatest thing that had happened to me in my entire life. College was where I could forget about the realities of what had happened to my home. It was where I could just have fun and sing and be me. I was anxious to get back.
Robin was supposed to pick us up that day, but she came to get us early. When I got into the truck, I could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong. But I shrugged it off figuring that she was just in a bad mood. The ride home was quiet. My little sister babbled on about things, and my step-brother was still and looking out the window. I sat there wondering why things felt weird and tense and started making checklists of all that I needed to do before heading back to school the following week.
When we got home, my dad's truck was in the driveway. He had gotten off early as well. It crossed my mind that perhaps we were all going to do something fun together. Maybe we were even going to take a trip or go see a movie.
But my dad had a look on face too that told me something was wrong.
He asked me to follow him into his bedroom and closed the door behind us. We stood there in the dark. Deep green curtains covered the windows and very little December sun poked through. I could see that whatever he had to say was difficult. I felt scared and wanting for light.
"What daddy? What's the matter?" I asked.
"Mommy died today." He started crying and pulled me in to give me a hug. Or maybe it was him that needed the embrace.
I started crying too. But only because I thought he said 'Poppy.' I was confused about what could have happened to my Grandfather and was distraught at such a sudden news. I was about to ask him a question, but he continued -
"She died in her sleep. Mike went in to wake her up and she didn't move. Her heart just stopped."
That's when I realized he didn't say Poppy. He must have said 'mommy.' A million different thoughts and feelings went through me in that moment - one of them being gratefulness that Poppy was still alive. Another of them was wondering why my dad had said 'mommy' instead of 'mom.' My brain felt like it was running a million miles a minute with thoughts and questions. I tried to access more tears but they felt difficult to produce.
Part of me felt relieved. And the other part felt nothing. I wasn't sure what to do with myself. At that moment I just wanted to run away.
How the rest of the day unfolded feels like I blur. I remember sitting next to my dad as he tried to explain my mom's death to my five year old sister. I remember her cries because all she knew was that she couldn't see mommy ever again. I remember Robin's tears and her telling me the next day that she thought I would hate her now since I didn't have my mom anymore. I remember going back over to my Gramma's house and seeing her tears. I remember later that night escaping the house and going to see my friend Courtney - needing to get out and breathe. We went to Sonic and got mozzarella sticks and chocolate shakes. The food kept me numb and unfeeling.
And I couldn't cry. My mom was dead and I had no tears.
Sometimes it feels like the memory of her isn't real. As if I made her up or she was an imaginary friend of some kind. Who she was often feels like a distant dream. And I know she is a part of my story, but some things feel harder to remember than others. Pieces of my childhood with her in it are fragmented and I can access feelings more easily than actual memories.
My Grandparents recently cleaned out their shed and found dozens of pictures of my mom. And of me when I was a toddler.
There were several of my brother also when he was sick and in the hospital as a baby. Looking through them still evoked much feeling. I felt anger and resentment and discarded the pictures easily. They were hard to look at because it had always felt like she had loved him more.
I found myself almost ravaging through them hoping to find something of my mom and me. I just wanted to find something I had never seen before - maybe some kind of proof that she had loved me. I'm 30 years old and I still want proof of her love. Maybe it's because I still don't believe that she ever really did. Or maybe it's just the ache of wishing my mother were alive and was never an alcoholic and I would know that I was loved. Either way, I was hoping to find some magical picture of the two of us that would make me feel better.
The photo I really want, I've never seen. Her holding me as a baby right after I was born. If it exists, I've never seen it.
It's both beautiful and sad how I still have the same questions and the same tears as I did as a child. I just wanted her love and attention and affection. And it's okay that I wanted it - I was supposed to have it. Needing a mom to love you as they were designed to, is good and normal and natural. God made it so that we were born to need that.
Apparently, it's time to invest in a scanner because I've taken pictures of pictures before and had them turn out fine. These however, are blurry. Though it somehow feels fitting. I can't remember these moments. They are before the age that my memory begins.
I've never seen these photos before. And they are already precious to me. They are snapshots of moments that happened in real time where my mother played with me. I have one real memory of a day when she played with me, but to have pictures as proof of where she was spending time with just me - enjoying me, swinging with me, holding on to me - it does something for my motherless heart.
This one is my favorite. Even though you can't see either of our faces. I'm pretty sure she was helping me walk, but it also looks as though she was dancing with me too. This picture makes my heart ache. Oh I wish I could remember being this small with my mother's hands in mine. To hear her voice and what her words might have been.
Maybe it feels silly to say this, but these new handful of photos of mine, kind of feels like a gift from her. A reminder from heaven that she really did love me. She did enjoy me and play with me and treasure me. Maybe a little bit of the proof I've been searching for.
She gave me these ugly wooden cat book-ends as a gift that year. She thought I could use them at school to hold my books up or something. They were lame and I made sure she knew that I thought so. Her gift made me angry. She didn't know me. She didn't even care to know me. She didn't know I hadn't liked anything to do with cats since I was eleven.
I was eighteen now and all grown up. Had she missed that? Probably. She had missed a lot the last two years.
My mom smelled like a bar that night. I had grown to hate that smell and I had grown to hate her too. It was evident that she was trying to act cool. She wore this fancy black dress that hung loosely on her thinning frame. She was trying to pretend that she was okay and that she was really happy with her boyfriend and that it wasn't awkward that we were all there together.
Days later, I was with my sister over at my Gramma's house for a visit. I was between semesters studying vocal performance at school. Christmas was over and I was finding things to do until I was able to get back on campus again. Being back in San Antonio felt painful and hard. It reminded me of how sick my mom was and how miserable I felt. Going away to school felt like the greatest thing that had happened to me in my entire life. College was where I could forget about the realities of what had happened to my home. It was where I could just have fun and sing and be me. I was anxious to get back.
Robin was supposed to pick us up that day, but she came to get us early. When I got into the truck, I could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong. But I shrugged it off figuring that she was just in a bad mood. The ride home was quiet. My little sister babbled on about things, and my step-brother was still and looking out the window. I sat there wondering why things felt weird and tense and started making checklists of all that I needed to do before heading back to school the following week.
When we got home, my dad's truck was in the driveway. He had gotten off early as well. It crossed my mind that perhaps we were all going to do something fun together. Maybe we were even going to take a trip or go see a movie.
But my dad had a look on face too that told me something was wrong.
He asked me to follow him into his bedroom and closed the door behind us. We stood there in the dark. Deep green curtains covered the windows and very little December sun poked through. I could see that whatever he had to say was difficult. I felt scared and wanting for light.
"What daddy? What's the matter?" I asked.
"Mommy died today." He started crying and pulled me in to give me a hug. Or maybe it was him that needed the embrace.
I started crying too. But only because I thought he said 'Poppy.' I was confused about what could have happened to my Grandfather and was distraught at such a sudden news. I was about to ask him a question, but he continued -
"She died in her sleep. Mike went in to wake her up and she didn't move. Her heart just stopped."
That's when I realized he didn't say Poppy. He must have said 'mommy.' A million different thoughts and feelings went through me in that moment - one of them being gratefulness that Poppy was still alive. Another of them was wondering why my dad had said 'mommy' instead of 'mom.' My brain felt like it was running a million miles a minute with thoughts and questions. I tried to access more tears but they felt difficult to produce.
Part of me felt relieved. And the other part felt nothing. I wasn't sure what to do with myself. At that moment I just wanted to run away.
How the rest of the day unfolded feels like I blur. I remember sitting next to my dad as he tried to explain my mom's death to my five year old sister. I remember her cries because all she knew was that she couldn't see mommy ever again. I remember Robin's tears and her telling me the next day that she thought I would hate her now since I didn't have my mom anymore. I remember going back over to my Gramma's house and seeing her tears. I remember later that night escaping the house and going to see my friend Courtney - needing to get out and breathe. We went to Sonic and got mozzarella sticks and chocolate shakes. The food kept me numb and unfeeling.
And I couldn't cry. My mom was dead and I had no tears.
~~~~
Sometimes it feels like the memory of her isn't real. As if I made her up or she was an imaginary friend of some kind. Who she was often feels like a distant dream. And I know she is a part of my story, but some things feel harder to remember than others. Pieces of my childhood with her in it are fragmented and I can access feelings more easily than actual memories.
My Grandparents recently cleaned out their shed and found dozens of pictures of my mom. And of me when I was a toddler.
There were several of my brother also when he was sick and in the hospital as a baby. Looking through them still evoked much feeling. I felt anger and resentment and discarded the pictures easily. They were hard to look at because it had always felt like she had loved him more.I found myself almost ravaging through them hoping to find something of my mom and me. I just wanted to find something I had never seen before - maybe some kind of proof that she had loved me. I'm 30 years old and I still want proof of her love. Maybe it's because I still don't believe that she ever really did. Or maybe it's just the ache of wishing my mother were alive and was never an alcoholic and I would know that I was loved. Either way, I was hoping to find some magical picture of the two of us that would make me feel better.
The photo I really want, I've never seen. Her holding me as a baby right after I was born. If it exists, I've never seen it.
It's both beautiful and sad how I still have the same questions and the same tears as I did as a child. I just wanted her love and attention and affection. And it's okay that I wanted it - I was supposed to have it. Needing a mom to love you as they were designed to, is good and normal and natural. God made it so that we were born to need that.
Apparently, it's time to invest in a scanner because I've taken pictures of pictures before and had them turn out fine. These however, are blurry. Though it somehow feels fitting. I can't remember these moments. They are before the age that my memory begins.
I've never seen these photos before. And they are already precious to me. They are snapshots of moments that happened in real time where my mother played with me. I have one real memory of a day when she played with me, but to have pictures as proof of where she was spending time with just me - enjoying me, swinging with me, holding on to me - it does something for my motherless heart.
This one is my favorite. Even though you can't see either of our faces. I'm pretty sure she was helping me walk, but it also looks as though she was dancing with me too. This picture makes my heart ache. Oh I wish I could remember being this small with my mother's hands in mine. To hear her voice and what her words might have been.Maybe it feels silly to say this, but these new handful of photos of mine, kind of feels like a gift from her. A reminder from heaven that she really did love me. She did enjoy me and play with me and treasure me. Maybe a little bit of the proof I've been searching for.
It's been twelve years.
And it still hurts.
It's been twelve years.
And I'm still searching for proof.
It's been twelve years.
And I still miss her and what we never got to have.
And it still hurts.
It's been twelve years.
And I'm still searching for proof.
It's been twelve years.
And I still miss her and what we never got to have.
December 5, 2011
Heirlooms
The last step to decorating the Christmas tree is putting the tree skirt at its base. After the garlands and the ornaments are hung and perfectly placed, it's the very last thing to do. And since the tree skirt I have belonged to my mother, it's something that evokes much emotion and feeling within me. Seeing it there makes me feel like I still have a piece of her around at Christmastime.
When I got married to Todd, my dad let me have it for myself. It feels like a treasure and I hold on to it tightly, because memories of my mother at Christmas are some of the most precious that I have.
Christmas was the time of year that she came to life in ways that she wasn't alive the other eleven months of the year. She made things extra special and extra fun and extra magical. As a grown woman, I find that I'm a lot like her in that regard. I purpose to make parties and gifts and decorations with that extra something. Not because I'm trying to be like my mom. But just because I am. It's part of what makes me me. And it's a place where I am proud to be like my her.
I still remember the year that she made that tree skirt. I was probably ten years old. I remember going to the fabric store when she selected which materials she would use to make it. She pieced together squares of Christmasy fabric and sewed a cute ruffle on the edge. I remember she stressed quite a bit about it - I'm pretty sure she got angry and cried some tears trying to figure it all out. I think it was a challenging project for her as sewing wasn't exactly her forte. She ended up mastering it though, and it was so lovely.
It is still lovely.
As a girl, I can remember putting it around my waist and spinning in it, pretending that it was some grand Christmas skirt and I was off to a fabulous party. I remember playing that game with my sister when she was a little girl too. In all honesty, I've actually done that as a grown adult. I've put the tree skirt around my waist and I have a spin and just for a moment, I am ten again.
But shhhh. Don't tell anyone that. It would be embarrassing if that secret ever got out.
This year as I've sat on my sofa gazing at my tree, it's felt like my tree skirt doesn't really fit. And it has traditional colors and it's cute, but it just doesn't feel like me It doesn't go with my pretty mesh garland or the fun sprigs I have at the top of the tree rather than a star or an angel. And it doesn't go with a lot of my decor either.
My style in my home has changed a lot in the last year or so. I've felt like I've been growing up and growing out of things. I grew out of my sunflower motif at home and changed everything a few months ago. I think it's felt true for me in several places this year - where I feel more grown up or just new and it has translated into a blog name change and home decorating and clothing choices and so on.
And the same feels true for the tree skirt. I feel like I've grown out of it. I think that maybe, I've even grown out of needing this piece of my mom in my home at Christmas.
For years now, I've needed that visible and tangible reminder of her around for the holidays. I wanted to honor and remember her in that way. Maybe even part of me felt like I had something to prove - that she still mattered to me. Or that I hadn't forgotten the woman she was before the divorce and the alcohol destroyed who she really was. And maybe now, almost twelve years after her death, I am starting to allow myself to let go of some of the things. Because I don't need the tangible things as much as I used to.
Because the woman she was - in all of her liveliness and beauty and creating is still very much alive in me.
This time next year I hope to have something new and something very me that I've made myself for our tree. I have a few ideas and I'm sure my mom would be thrilled that I'm putting her antique away and creating something that feels more like myself. I know that in creating something new, I am still honoring the memory of her.
This will be the last year that my mom's tree skirt graces our family Christmas tree. I will hold on to it and treasure it and lock it away with some of my other heirlooms. That's what it is now isn't it? An heirloom.
When I got married to Todd, my dad let me have it for myself. It feels like a treasure and I hold on to it tightly, because memories of my mother at Christmas are some of the most precious that I have.
Christmas was the time of year that she came to life in ways that she wasn't alive the other eleven months of the year. She made things extra special and extra fun and extra magical. As a grown woman, I find that I'm a lot like her in that regard. I purpose to make parties and gifts and decorations with that extra something. Not because I'm trying to be like my mom. But just because I am. It's part of what makes me me. And it's a place where I am proud to be like my her.
I still remember the year that she made that tree skirt. I was probably ten years old. I remember going to the fabric store when she selected which materials she would use to make it. She pieced together squares of Christmasy fabric and sewed a cute ruffle on the edge. I remember she stressed quite a bit about it - I'm pretty sure she got angry and cried some tears trying to figure it all out. I think it was a challenging project for her as sewing wasn't exactly her forte. She ended up mastering it though, and it was so lovely.
It is still lovely.
As a girl, I can remember putting it around my waist and spinning in it, pretending that it was some grand Christmas skirt and I was off to a fabulous party. I remember playing that game with my sister when she was a little girl too. In all honesty, I've actually done that as a grown adult. I've put the tree skirt around my waist and I have a spin and just for a moment, I am ten again.But shhhh. Don't tell anyone that. It would be embarrassing if that secret ever got out.
This year as I've sat on my sofa gazing at my tree, it's felt like my tree skirt doesn't really fit. And it has traditional colors and it's cute, but it just doesn't feel like me It doesn't go with my pretty mesh garland or the fun sprigs I have at the top of the tree rather than a star or an angel. And it doesn't go with a lot of my decor either.
My style in my home has changed a lot in the last year or so. I've felt like I've been growing up and growing out of things. I grew out of my sunflower motif at home and changed everything a few months ago. I think it's felt true for me in several places this year - where I feel more grown up or just new and it has translated into a blog name change and home decorating and clothing choices and so on.
And the same feels true for the tree skirt. I feel like I've grown out of it. I think that maybe, I've even grown out of needing this piece of my mom in my home at Christmas.
For years now, I've needed that visible and tangible reminder of her around for the holidays. I wanted to honor and remember her in that way. Maybe even part of me felt like I had something to prove - that she still mattered to me. Or that I hadn't forgotten the woman she was before the divorce and the alcohol destroyed who she really was. And maybe now, almost twelve years after her death, I am starting to allow myself to let go of some of the things. Because I don't need the tangible things as much as I used to.
Because the woman she was - in all of her liveliness and beauty and creating is still very much alive in me.
This time next year I hope to have something new and something very me that I've made myself for our tree. I have a few ideas and I'm sure my mom would be thrilled that I'm putting her antique away and creating something that feels more like myself. I know that in creating something new, I am still honoring the memory of her.
This will be the last year that my mom's tree skirt graces our family Christmas tree. I will hold on to it and treasure it and lock it away with some of my other heirlooms. That's what it is now isn't it? An heirloom.
September 9, 2011
Puff-paint sweatshirt memories
Memories have a mind of their own. Especially when they return to you. For me, random scenes from life occasionally comes to mind, often triggered by a smell or a touch or a feeling.
Sunday was a beautiful breezy day. The morning felt cool and I could just taste autumn in the air. Every day this week, the mornings have been cool and pleasant. There is even talk of an actual "cold front" coming in by next weekend. Cold fronts don't ever come in September here.
Anytime the weather makes the shift from summer to autumn, my heart begins to ache. I start thinking of her and remembering things. Mom. Things like what her laugh sounded like. Her laugh was a melody in and of itself. It was like a song that was so beautiful you wanted to make her keep laughing so you could listen to it for always.
Last Sunday I had the memory of her creating these silly sweatshirts. The kind where she ironed on fall leaves cut out from fabric and outlined them with puff-paint. Of course I would never wear them, because I was thirteen and much "too cool" for such things. Those kinds of sweatshirts are a sure sign of the '90's, and well then, that was just my mom too. She was crafty and creative and artsy and she loved to create and make things. I know well the satisfaction of creating something by hand and admiring my work. I got it from her.
It's funny how thinking about an ugly puff-painted sweatshirt can draw so many tears. I have stopped thinking my tears are foolish about such things. But it always amazes me how something like that can reach so far into me and make me miss her so.
It seems as always with the changing of seasons, the wind blows in new memories of her and new places to grieve. Perhaps I remember her the best and think of her the most this time of year because this was when she would just shine the most. The holidays, the cooler weather, her birthday - she felt so full of life this time of year. Maybe we even felt closer then and maybe that's just me wishing that we were closer. Wishing that I had more memories of us together rather than just memories of who she was and how I observed her. And regardless of the lack of memories I have of us sharing these special mom and daughter moments that really just don't exist, I can still taste her vibrancy and just how she could light up a room.
I wrote the other day about how this was one of the places I've been avoiding feeling. I am so resistant to grief. As much as I do cry, I am so resistant to shed tears. So much of me avoids wanting to hurt and feel pain and I sometimes hate that I still have so much pain over a mother I never really had, and a had mother who has been dead for nearly twelve years. So much of me feels desperate to have others understand my heart here, and yet for some reason, God has let this piece of my heart be a sacred place where He has allowed a select few to walk there with me bravely. Those women know who they are.
Recently, God brought a new woman in to my life to walk these places with me. A woman that used to know her and call her friend. This new relationship still blows my mind. And her husband, who also knew both of my parents, has been pursuing my husband. Only God could orchestrate something that amazingly awesome. It has literally put me in my knees in awe and thanks at God's goodness and just how into the details of our lives that He is.
This morning I was gifted with the opportunity to cry. I sat across from this woman today who knew her and remembered her. She let me cry and she cried with me. She held my hand and let me remember. She sat with me in my tears and cried the messy ones with me - like how it still hurts like hell to not have her here to know my son. To hold him and read him books and just be his Grandma. She called me things like darling and precious and special and just motherly words that my daughter-heart needs to hear sometimes.
Honestly, I don't know if I feel any "better." But I'm feeling. I'm feeling her absence and my missing her and my pain over not having my mom. It's a hard and good place to be.
This is my most favorite picture of my mom. This is the mom I will always remember. This is the creator of puff-paint sweatshirts and the laugher of melodic laughs. This is the mom I miss and cry over on quiet September Fridays.
Sunday was a beautiful breezy day. The morning felt cool and I could just taste autumn in the air. Every day this week, the mornings have been cool and pleasant. There is even talk of an actual "cold front" coming in by next weekend. Cold fronts don't ever come in September here.
Anytime the weather makes the shift from summer to autumn, my heart begins to ache. I start thinking of her and remembering things. Mom. Things like what her laugh sounded like. Her laugh was a melody in and of itself. It was like a song that was so beautiful you wanted to make her keep laughing so you could listen to it for always.
Last Sunday I had the memory of her creating these silly sweatshirts. The kind where she ironed on fall leaves cut out from fabric and outlined them with puff-paint. Of course I would never wear them, because I was thirteen and much "too cool" for such things. Those kinds of sweatshirts are a sure sign of the '90's, and well then, that was just my mom too. She was crafty and creative and artsy and she loved to create and make things. I know well the satisfaction of creating something by hand and admiring my work. I got it from her.
It's funny how thinking about an ugly puff-painted sweatshirt can draw so many tears. I have stopped thinking my tears are foolish about such things. But it always amazes me how something like that can reach so far into me and make me miss her so.
It seems as always with the changing of seasons, the wind blows in new memories of her and new places to grieve. Perhaps I remember her the best and think of her the most this time of year because this was when she would just shine the most. The holidays, the cooler weather, her birthday - she felt so full of life this time of year. Maybe we even felt closer then and maybe that's just me wishing that we were closer. Wishing that I had more memories of us together rather than just memories of who she was and how I observed her. And regardless of the lack of memories I have of us sharing these special mom and daughter moments that really just don't exist, I can still taste her vibrancy and just how she could light up a room.
I wrote the other day about how this was one of the places I've been avoiding feeling. I am so resistant to grief. As much as I do cry, I am so resistant to shed tears. So much of me avoids wanting to hurt and feel pain and I sometimes hate that I still have so much pain over a mother I never really had, and a had mother who has been dead for nearly twelve years. So much of me feels desperate to have others understand my heart here, and yet for some reason, God has let this piece of my heart be a sacred place where He has allowed a select few to walk there with me bravely. Those women know who they are.
Recently, God brought a new woman in to my life to walk these places with me. A woman that used to know her and call her friend. This new relationship still blows my mind. And her husband, who also knew both of my parents, has been pursuing my husband. Only God could orchestrate something that amazingly awesome. It has literally put me in my knees in awe and thanks at God's goodness and just how into the details of our lives that He is.
This morning I was gifted with the opportunity to cry. I sat across from this woman today who knew her and remembered her. She let me cry and she cried with me. She held my hand and let me remember. She sat with me in my tears and cried the messy ones with me - like how it still hurts like hell to not have her here to know my son. To hold him and read him books and just be his Grandma. She called me things like darling and precious and special and just motherly words that my daughter-heart needs to hear sometimes.
Honestly, I don't know if I feel any "better." But I'm feeling. I'm feeling her absence and my missing her and my pain over not having my mom. It's a hard and good place to be.
This is my most favorite picture of my mom. This is the mom I will always remember. This is the creator of puff-paint sweatshirts and the laugher of melodic laughs. This is the mom I miss and cry over on quiet September Fridays.
March 2, 2011
Moving on
Maybe I've been thinking about her so much because my birthday is around the corner. Even though I've lived almost 12 years of life without her, I still wish she were here to celebrate it with me. Sometimes I wonder how I can miss someone so much who hasn't been present in my life for years.
Grief always seems to take me by surprise. Just when I thought I've cried all the tears I've needed to cry about my mom for a while, some fresh, new memory comes to mind and I feel sadness again. I think sometimes I just need to hear someone tell me that it's okay for me to still grieve the loss of her. Maybe I just need to hear someone tell me that it's okay to still miss her and want her in my life. And then I wonder why I need permission from someone else to grieve?
I guess I feel like most of my family is "over" her in a way. And I wonder if I should be over her and moved on too.
You move on as much as you can though when someone close to you dies. But I do often feel the holes that she left that only a mom - my own mom - can fill. I am not over her. Does that mean I haven't moved on? And does that even look the same for everyone anyway?
When Tommy was born, my Aunt came down to stay with me for almost two weeks. She wanted to help with the baby and just be with me for my first days and weeks as a new mom. That was probably something my mom would have done had she been alive. She would have come to stay with me and help. She would have cooked dinner, sat with Tommy so I could sleep and recover, done my dishes, and bought me special things. Instead, Auntie was here to do that. And it meant the world to me to have her fill in that particular hole for me.
When she came that year, she brought this picture to me. I only had one picture ever of my mom and I together from when I was little, so a new picture felt like I had recovered a long lost treasure. I immediately framed this in a sunflowerly frame and it sits on my kitchen counter in my sunflowery kitchen.
I have no idea why I was holding all these balloons. I have a vague memory of this day. We were at my Grammy's house and she took the picture of us. I can remember holding the balloons. I can even remember posing for a picture with my her. But I don't remember anything else. I wish I did. It looked like such a fun day. I was young here -maybe three or so. I wish she were here to tell me what this day was about. I love how cheesy-happy I look.
I'm not sure what it means really to move on when it comes to the loss of my mother. Maybe that's what I've been doing in the last 12 years of my life - moving on. Missing her, grieving her, wishing she were here, and living my life without her.
Grief always seems to take me by surprise. Just when I thought I've cried all the tears I've needed to cry about my mom for a while, some fresh, new memory comes to mind and I feel sadness again. I think sometimes I just need to hear someone tell me that it's okay for me to still grieve the loss of her. Maybe I just need to hear someone tell me that it's okay to still miss her and want her in my life. And then I wonder why I need permission from someone else to grieve?
I guess I feel like most of my family is "over" her in a way. And I wonder if I should be over her and moved on too.
You move on as much as you can though when someone close to you dies. But I do often feel the holes that she left that only a mom - my own mom - can fill. I am not over her. Does that mean I haven't moved on? And does that even look the same for everyone anyway?
When Tommy was born, my Aunt came down to stay with me for almost two weeks. She wanted to help with the baby and just be with me for my first days and weeks as a new mom. That was probably something my mom would have done had she been alive. She would have come to stay with me and help. She would have cooked dinner, sat with Tommy so I could sleep and recover, done my dishes, and bought me special things. Instead, Auntie was here to do that. And it meant the world to me to have her fill in that particular hole for me.
When she came that year, she brought this picture to me. I only had one picture ever of my mom and I together from when I was little, so a new picture felt like I had recovered a long lost treasure. I immediately framed this in a sunflowerly frame and it sits on my kitchen counter in my sunflowery kitchen.
I have no idea why I was holding all these balloons. I have a vague memory of this day. We were at my Grammy's house and she took the picture of us. I can remember holding the balloons. I can even remember posing for a picture with my her. But I don't remember anything else. I wish I did. It looked like such a fun day. I was young here -maybe three or so. I wish she were here to tell me what this day was about. I love how cheesy-happy I look.I'm not sure what it means really to move on when it comes to the loss of my mother. Maybe that's what I've been doing in the last 12 years of my life - moving on. Missing her, grieving her, wishing she were here, and living my life without her.
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