One Year

"Several times that day, the name or thought of Papa had come up.  And each time, Francie had felt a flash of tenderness instead of the old stab of pain.  'Am I forgetting him?' she thought. 'In time to come will it be hard to remember anything about him?  I guess it's like Gramma Mary Rommely says:  "With time, passes all." The first year was hard because we could say last 'lection he voted.  Last Thanksgiving he ate with us.  But next year it will be two years ago that he . . . and as time passes it will be harder and harder to remember and keep track.'"

~A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith*

It is easier almost a year later.  I can talk about my mom--to some people, in some ways--and I can hear my son reference Grammie Joy without crying.  Some days pass when I don't miss her.  Some days it's the only thing I really do.  I can talk about things she did, or liked, or memories I made with her, but I can't talk about how I miss her--what 4 o'clock in the afternoon is like when I can't call her on the phone--what it is like to have a segment of my soul locked up and unable to be expressed to anyone, because it was a part I shared only with my mom.

I think maybe soon only tenderness will remain-- with fewer stabs.  I know that this is only a brief interlude before I see her again--my hope and faith remain.  I know that soon I will be able to meet new people--or respond to a how are you--without pushing back my initial thought of "My mom is dead."  I know my first mental image of her will dissolve back into a beautiful and lively one, and not the last one.  I have faith, but this is still a hard road.  Just like parenting, the days are long, but the years are short.

*soon after mom died, this book was cheap on my nook, and a part of my brain dinged:  mom had liked this book.  I bought it, and as I read, I became convinced she had-- the protagonist loved libraries, just like my mom--she even had the same birthday--and then when her adored father died, it felt like reading the book was a gift from my mom--to have hope--to process--to imagine her reading it as a young girl.

Happy Mother's Day

When I hear that trumpet sound

I will lay my burdens down

I will lay them deep into the ground

Then I'll know that I am glory bound

I'll be travelling far from home

But I won't be looking for to roam

I'll be crossing o'er the great divide

In a better home soon I will reside

Hallelujah

When I'm in my resting place

I'll look on my mother's face

Never more will I have to know

All the loneliness that plagues me so

So I'm waiting for that train to come

And I know where she's coming from

Listen can you hear her on the track

When I board I won't be looking back

Hallelujah

Glory Bound, by the Wailin' Jennys

Ten Months

It has been a tough few months, trying to work through loneliness, anger, and grief. I am trying to get to joy--to this Psalm.


When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
we were like those who dreamed.
Our mouths were filled with laughter,
our tongues with songs of joy.
Then it was said among the nations,
“The Lord has done great things for them.”
The Lord has done great things for us,
and we are filled with joy.
Restore our fortunes, Lord,
like streams in the Negev.
Those who sow with tears
will reap with songs of joy.
Those who go out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with them.
--Psalm 126, NIV

8 Months

Missing my mom is like having a good-sized hole in the floor. I can see it--I know how to avoid it--but I am still getting stuck in it pretty regularly.

Most days, I am doing better. I am confident mom is healed and rejoicing in heaven. I can remember her and honor her here on earth. I can stop at the hole and look at it, and remember, and move on with my day. I can visit joyfully with my family, read Lincoln books his Grammie gave him, and happily bake her recipes.

There are still many days, though, when I get stuck in the hole. I am filled all day with a sluggish sadness, an inability to move with any freedom or joy, a despair over missing my mom, a deep jealousy for anyone I interact with who has a mom, for any child I see with a grandmother. These days are hard--I am aware of how to get out of the hole, but every tear and interaction keeps me stuck.

I think the hole will always be there--I am hoping I will get better at walking around it and hoisting myself out, but the hole will be there--maybe getting smaller.

Seven Months

I've been thinking about mom, grief, moms in general, and I thought I would share a few thoughts.
It feels so hard to lose a mom--I have felt disconnected from others--from life, and after I thought about it some, I realized that it centers on who moms typically are. Moms hold all our memories, from the very beginning--they know us from in utero to our first cries and hunger. A mom holds all of that--ponders it and keeps it in her heart, just as Mary the mother of Jesus did.
And I lost that. I lost that repository of memory and hope and love. Lost the person who would see and understand the similarities between my child self and my son.
And when that pondering heart ceases beating, it feels like a severed connection--a loss of anyone on earth who has truly known and loved me.
Of course, there are many who love me, but losing a mom is a connection lost with time, with the world. Now all the burden of memory is on me--not just to remember my own life but hers.
A heavy post, I know, but thoughts I had and wanted to share, and express. Saying the thing names it, makes it real, and releases the weight.
My dad played a classic toasting song called, "The Parting Glass,"* and the last lines have helped me cry and understand and hope:
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
Good night and joy be with you all

The last non-comfort/health/pain thing my mom said to my sister and I was this: " You know how much I love you girls." We knew. We know. We will remember. And Joy will be with us all always.


*I recommend The Wailin' Jennies version.