Category Archives: mom

Hold onto the Old; Welcome the New

2011 was a year of change and adventure, and a year of sadness. I moved yet again, back home to New Hanover County, without doubt the most beautiful area in the world: sun, tall pines and live oaks, dunes, the ocean, sunrises that stun the senses and sunsets over the water on the EAST coast. (Yes, it’s true[i].) I visited Iceland, land of severe and startling beauty. I met interesting people and developed lasting friendships. I accepted a position with DODEA and am preparing to move to Europe, another homecoming of sorts. And I have wanted to share it all with my mom, who is really and truly Home, but to whom I wasn’t ready to say goodbye when she went to be with Jesus just over a year ago.
 In the blog entry from June 19, 2011 I said, “Life is precious, life is sweet. And sometimes it is bittersweet.” I would amend that now to say “often” instead of “sometimes.” This recent move to Wilmington has been filled with bittersweet reminders of the years we spent together here when I was a child —
The USS North Carolina:  I recently visited the noble vessel with friends, something that I had done with Mom when I was about eight; she taught me to admire the sailors who served on her, to the point that I even served in the US Naval Reserve myself. The smells on the ship are overwhelming memory inducers, and this recent trip took me back to that first visit.
Carolina Beach:   The tiki bar is one of my favorite places. It sits on what is left of Center Pier, across from the land that once held the motel that Mom owned. Eons ago, when I was about seven, she walked me all the way out on Center Pier during a strong gale. She was terrified of hurricanes but loathed the thought that I would be, so we walked in the furious wind, my hand held firmly in hers, and she talked with me as if everything were perfectly normal. Only later would I learn that she was absolutely beside herself with fear, but so sternly determined that I not be afraid of wind storms that she swallowed her terror, and I, because of her sacrifice, have literally slept through category 3 hurricanes.
Wrightsville Beach: Standing on the sand, watching the waves and the fishermen, I remember Mom casting the line from the shore. At 5’4″ and 110 pounds, she could cast as well as most men. She taught herself to throw a cast net and gig for flounder, too, which she filleted and cooked like nobody else.
The Intracoastal Waterway: Every time I pass over an ICW bridge, I can almost taste the oysters we gathered and ate, standing on the sand. I still feel weight of the knife I held in my hand and how it scraped against the oyster bed as I mimicked her motions, learning to pull the individual shells away from the bed and then open. If I lick my lips, I taste the salt.
These and countless other landmarks, smells, and tastes cause memories to flash in my mind of things we did together here over the course of my life. She shared her love for this beautiful and varied place with me. It will always be home to me, as it was to her.
Now the move to Europe floods me with thoughts of her; she and I made a similar move many years ago, to Germany, and I so want to hear her thoughts. Just a few nights ago, as I was driving to a New Year’s celebration, I thought of calling her to ask her advice. After over a year, I still reach out for her frequently. The past thirteen months have been filled with memories of Mom, thoughts of what I want to say to her or ask her about, of things I wish I’d done differently, of questions about what eternity is really like.
2011 was a tough year. I have worked really hard at my job, and I’ve moved once and begun a second move. I’ve embraced my singleness, letting go of most of the vague dreams I once had of some fictional Prince Charming, realizing I am pretty content in my life with my pets and my friends. I’ve done all of it while mourning the loss of my mom. I have confronted everything with enthusiasm, in Mom’s example. So, in spite of the pain, I’ve begun to be relatively happy again.
There is a saying, “out with the old, in with the new.” I prefer “hold onto the old, welcome the new.” The old must never be tossed out; it makes us who we are. We must hold onto it, cherish it, nurture it, so that we are open and ready to enfold the new into us, and assimilate it all into a new whole.  As I face 2012, I resolve to hold onto the memories of my mom and all she meant to me, as well as all the rest of the good and bad of my past, and welcome the new adventure that is in front of me. There will be difficult days ahead, but life is still precious, sweet, and bittersweet. I am grateful for all I’ve been given. God is still good, and I am still His.


[i] Because NC’s coastal geography juts in, then out, then back, some of its coasts are western-facing. Little known and lovely fact.

November Again

It is November. The brisk morning air and falling leaves remind me that summer is long past, and all around me I see evidence that Thanksgiving is just around the corner. I saw, in fact, as I drove home from work tonight, the years’ first stupidly early Christmas tree behind a neighborhood picture window. It is now just two weeks shy of the anniversary of my mother’s death.
On Sunday, I was gladdened to hear a friend tell me how wonderful it has been to have her mom nearby for the last few years. She expressed her disappointment that her mom had just left to visit her sister in another state through the holidays. A few minutes later she asked what I was doing for Thanksgiving, and I hesitated briefly before telling her that I’ll be taking my mom’s brother to her grave that weekend, that it’s been a year since her death and he hasn’t been back since the funeral. My friend commiserated a bit, then said how happy she is that her mom lives nearby now, and how lovely it is to have her here to be a grandmother to her children. She paused, then began, “I don’t know what I’ll do when Mom…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, of course; who can? My heart broke anew when she looked at me as her eyes filled. Finally she said, “I can’t imagine how horrible it must be.”
This month has been and will continue to be, I expect, the most difficult period in weeks. Every reminder of Thanksgiving fills me with regret and anguish. It is not surprising; I was expecting this month to be difficult. How can it not be? One nightmarish, empty year has nearly passed, and nothing fills the void. I continue to be shocked occasionally by the sudden realization that she is gone, to disbelieve it briefly, to think of things I want to tell her. There is nothing I can do except remember her with love, offer profound gratitude to God for giving us the years we had, and remind anyone who will listen, as I did my friend on Sunday, that they must leave nothing unsaid or undone, and that they must take advantage of every fleeting opportunity for sweet communion. 

Bitter and Sweet


How can one day contain this much emotion?

Yesterday, the Saturday before Father’s Day, I spent several hours with two people I haven’t seen in years, people who were two of my best friends throughout the 1990’s. One was my roommate and sharer of clothing, my shoulder to cry on, partner in prayer, and the melody to my harmony as we careened through the NC Mountains in my little white pickup truck or gripped microphones at church. The other was my concert-going, head-bangin’ buddy, my “little brother,” with whom I was honored to walk as he loved and supported his first wife through her valiant fight against cancer, and then while he grieved in agony for her when she left him, much too young, to be with the Lord. These two remarkable people helped make me the person I am today; few others have shared such influence on me. We enjoyed a wonderful time together at his home, talking and laughing and feeling the years fall away.

A few hours later, I was standing over my mother’s grave, stricken again by her name on the stone and feeling intensely the loss. You see, in the misty and secluded southern Appalachian Mountains that my parents’ families have called home for generations, we have a tradition called Decoration Day. It generally falls on Father’s Day, and consists of family reunions and some sort of memorial for those who’ve preceded us in death. So the early evening found me helping my father’s sister carry and place flowers on the earthly resting places of my paternal grandparents at the family cemetery. A half hour later, quite alone now, I was tending my mother’s grave, as well as her mother’s and father’s, carefully placing flowers and preparing them for tomorrow’s visitors to the cemetery. Performing this task by myself was difficult, highly emotional, and left me feeling very lonely and very alone. I drove away with a heavy heart, experiencing her absence afresh.

A few hours later still, finally back home, I signed into Facebook and learned what I had missed when I couldn’t answer my phone when it rang in the early afternoon. My lovely friend in Chicago had called me but she didn’t leave a message. I guess she figured that telling me she’d gotten engaged was too much for a voicemail! I would have to agree. My happiness for her overflowed; she has patiently waited for God’s perfect choice for her, and He has proven Himself faithful once again. 

Throughout the day I alternately laughed and cried, and I welcomed the tears: tears of happiness, of missed years regained and friendships renewed, of joyful milestones, and of continued grieving. God is sovereign and He is good. He gave me precious friends, people who love me as much as I love them, and he gave me a mom who for 50 years made me feel as if I were the most special person in her world and who treated me as both her daughter and her friend. I am grateful to Him for all of these incomparable people who have enriched my life.

A current song by Wes King is playing in my mind: “Life is precious, life is sweet.” Sometimes it is bittersweet. And sometimes it is just bitter. But it is always precious.
Youtube video of Life is Precious by Wes King

Mother’s Day

Dear Mom,
Happy Mother’s Day. I know you are not HERE, breathing the air of Earth with me, but you are HERE, in my thoughts, in my soul, in my heart. I could say I miss you, but that would not begin to express the depth of what I’m feeling today, this first Mother’s Day without you.
The world feels darker and colder this year than in Mother’s Days past. The sun shines less brightly and the birds don’t sing as prettily. Music is less soulful and the stars don’t twinkle as they once did. Even the flowers are less colorful and fragrant. But the worst of all is I am more alone than I’ve ever been.
On the other hand, because you were and are my mom, I appreciate the warmth of the sun on my skin and the melody of birdsong; because of you, I know that these are gifts of the Most High and that I must never take them for granted. I adore daisies and black-eyed Susans and the scent of roses, thanks to you. Some of my most treasured memories are of singing along with you and the radio or with you playing guitar; because of you, Mommy, music moves me. And thanks to you, I know that the stars shine brightest when the world is darkest.
It is true that I am more alone than I’ve ever been. But I’ve never been really alone, not even now. I carry you and your legacy in all that I do, think and feel. Thank you, Mom, for everything you did to make me who I am. For better or worse, I’m your daughter and I always will be.
I love you still, Mommy. 

Fear and Doubt

Fear and doubt have been nagging at me since Mom died. It is one thing to believe in Heaven and a good and sovereign God when the sun is shining and all is right with your world. It is quite another when the person you love most in the world is no longer living and breathing next to you. I have found my faith shaken these past few months.
If you listen to some Christian teachers, you’ll be asked to believe God sits on His throne rolling His eyes at our stupidity in doubting Him, yet the Bible is full of reassurances to the faint of heart. Max Lucado, in his Fearless: Imagine Your Life Without Fear[i], says Christ is recorded as having said, “Fear not,” “Have courage,” “Take heart,” or similar imperatives 21 times in the Gospels. The psalms again and again urge us to trust in the Lord and not fear. Psalm 112:7 tells us that “[the righteous] will have no fear of bad news,” that they trust in the Lord.” Perhaps the most famous word to us faint of heart is Psalm 91.
 I had asked Mom a few weeks before her death what her favorite Bible verse was, and she unhesitatingly said, “Psalm 91.” “Verse, Mama, VERSE,” I replied. She couldn’t narrow it down; the WHOLE CHAPTER was her favorite. I like it, too; that particular psalm comforted me over a period of time many years ago when I first lived alone and would be nervous going from my car to the front door.  I re-read it after Mom died, and it’s really no wonder why she loved it so much; she, as I, often needed comforting.
Mom’s life was hard. She had lived life exuberantly and with abandon for many years, but for the last ten or so, she was very, very poor, at least by US standards. Her back and neck surgeries, necessary because of two car accidents she had in the early 1990’s, left her in pain most of the time and robbed her of her income. She worried a lot about getting by, and she worried even more about those she loved. When I was a teenager, she was afraid for herself and my sister and me because of the violent men she attached herself to. Until their deaths, she was anxious about her mom and her sister, for various and very real reasons. But lately, her greatest concerns were for my sister’s children.
She loved those children more than she loved anyone, even me, and she loved me with all of her being. She would often ask me to pray for them. She was afraid that her precious grandchildren would quit school, get involved in drugs and crime, never make a good life for themselves. She used to call me after talking with my sister or with one of the grandkids, to tell me whatever was happening, and I could hear the fear in her voice. She just wanted them to be safe, happy, and living “in the shadow of the Almighty.”
Psalm 91 portrays God as having wings. Verse 4 says, “He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge.” Some have said that this is referring to angels, because if we are created in the image of God, we would have wings if He does, and since we don’t, He doesn’t. Perhaps. There are other things in the Bible that I don’t fully understand. I just know my mom took comfort in knowing that she was safe under the wings of God, and she wanted the same for those she loved. 
Did God provide all these words of encouragement not to be afraid because He was mad at us? Isn’t it more likely that our loving, Heavenly Father knew that we are weak and frightened and wanted to reach out to us in hopeful reassurance? That’s what my Mom believed. It’s what I believe, too. My faith isn’t in danger, I don’t think. I’m asking questions now that may never be answered, at least not in the Temporal, and I’m not as sure of myself as I once was. Nevertheless, I can still say with doubters everywhere, “I may falter in my steps, but never beyond Your reach.”[ii]

[i] Lucado, Max, Fearless: Imagine Your Life Without Fear, Thomas Nelson: 2009
[ii] Rich Mullins, “Sometimes By Step,” The World as Best as I Remember It, Volume 2,” Kid Brothers of St. Frank Publishing, 1992.
All quotes from the Holy Bible are from the New International Version.

Mom’s Car

I sold Mom’s car yesterday. It’s a good thing because I had cosigned on the note, and we were totally upside down on it. But it’s bittersweet. Seeing that car pull away pulled at my heart.
I had become accustomed to seeing it parked in my carport, and it was somehow comforting and painful at the same time; it was almost as if I expected to find her inside when I got home.  Mom loved that car so much; she had always admired big, fancy cars.  When her Intrepid’s engine gave out about a year and a half ago, she found this Cadillac, a 2000 Deville. It was a gorgeous car: silver, shiny, and beautiful. Mom was in love. I can still hear her voice on the phone when she got the car home:  “You should see my beautiful car!”
Mom didn’t get to drive her Cadillac very much. Her health deteriorated a bit soon after she bought it, so she didn’t feel up to getting out a lot, and she had a little trouble with the car, too. She put about six thousand miles on it, and then she had to put it in the shop for about two thousand dollars’ worth of work. That’s why we were upside down on the loan; she had to refinance it to pay for the work.
The last year of Mom’s life was even more stressful than the preceding ones: the deaths of two important family members, the instability of my sister and her children, my issues, her very crabby, jealous and opinionated husband, her financial struggles. Now even her car wasn’t right. She was such a lover of her independence, and for a few months, that independence was severely impaired. She was really happy when the car was finally repaired and running as it should. Unfortunately, she died less than a month later, even before the first payment on the refinance was made.
I know I had to sell the car. And I’m very grateful that God sent a buyer so quickly. Nevertheless, it’s another piece of my mother that is no longer with me. I noticed when I was preparing the car to sell that there was a rabies tag on her keychain – it was Annebelle’s. Annebelle, a poodle we’d gotten when we lived in Germany, was a piece of Mom’s heart, that one-in-a-million companion animal that Mom loved as much as she did her children. She died in the 90’s after some 20 years with Mom. Her rabies tag is on my keychain now. Mom would be happy about that. It makes me happy, too. Or at least less sad.

A Whispered Goodnight

I wish I could somehow keep track of how many times a day I think, “I’ll call Mom.” The words don’t have time to completely form in my head before I am jolted back to reality. It has happened time and time again every single day since she left here, bound for Heaven. I know I’ve said it before, probably several times, but it keeps happening, so it remains in the front of my mind.


Mom and I talked about everything. She told me what was happening in her life, and I told her what was happening in mine. Every celebration, every sadness, every success and every sin, we shared with each other. She and I didn’t spend a lot of time in the same zip code, breathing the same air, but we talked every day, with very rare exceptions. Everything of any consequence that I did or said, I saw through her eyes. Honestly, I still do.

So what do I do with those urges to call her? Obviously the telephone is out of the question, but can I talk to her? Some of my sweet and caring friends think I can. They say things like, “You can talk to her anytime, now; you don’t even have to pick up the phone. Just talk to her whenever you think of her; she’s always with you.” Others are of a completely different mind. One of my closest friends, the very well-read wife of a trusted pastor, amidst her encouraging words about Heaven and how we’ll see each other again, reminded me that families as we know them don’t exist there, and so my relationship with my mother has changed forever. Now mind you, she spoke those words amidst her own tears, because she was thinking of having lost her own mother several months earlier. Nevertheless, it was shocking to think about, and it stung.

I don’t want my relationship with my mother to change! Why would I? I never wanted anything other than what she and I had.  We shared something that none of my other friends shared with their mothers: an imperfect but altogether genuine friendship. What a treasure it was! From the time I was just a little girl, Mom talked with me like she talked with a good, close friend, and her demeanor invited me to talk honestly and openly with her, so I did. I always did. And now I can’t.

For the time being, my mom’s and my relationship is only a memory, and whenever it is that we meet again, it will never be the same. No matter how I wish it were true, I can’t agree with my loving, well-meaning friends who believe my mom is nearby. She lives on, it’s true, and I know she’s “at home with the Lord,” as Paul said in chapter 5 of his second letter to the Corinthians, and knowing that gives me great comfort! It means, however, that she is away from here, apart from me.

The pastor who did Mom’s interment service said something that has stayed with me. He said I could ask God, when I pray, to tell Mom I miss her and love her. So just maybe, hopefully, when I whisper goodnight to her every evening, God somehow sees that she gets the message.


Legacy, Part One

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how to properly mourn Mom. That probably sounds strange if you haven’t thought about mourning from a personal perspective, but from this vantage point, it makes a lot of sense. It’s really about honoring her in my mourning, rather than wallowing in the pain of it. The latter would be easy to do because after seven weeks, it still makes me physically wince when I reach for the phone and then remember that she isn’t going to be on the other end if I dial her number, and I still cry easily when I think of certain memories or regrets. But letting the pain lead would neither be best for me nor for anyone who has any day to day dealings with me. The better choice is to learn how to honor Mom and strengthen my character in the process. Just how to do that is the question, and one I’m little by little learning to answer.
One thing I’m learning is that she left her mark on me in a myriad of ways. Like her, I love my pets like they are my children, and I have a soft spot for almost every living thing, except maybe spiders, roaches and snakes. I laugh easily, love to read, like to drive, appreciate a good beer, and am easily distracted by bright, shiny objects (like gaudy jewelry!), all thanks to Mom.
She also gave me a hefty helping of vanity. One of my earliest memories is from when I was about three or four years old. Mom, who was always strikingly beautiful, had gotten a haircut and it was not to her liking. She was looking at herself in my parents’ bedroom mirror and complaining, and I was standing at her feet, absorbing every word. Later, when I was perhaps nine or ten, she taught me an explicit lesson in using my femininity to my own advantage. I distinctly remember her looking directly into my eyes and saying to me, as we stood in a parking lot beside her car with its flat tire, “Watch me.” I watched, and while she stood there looking both helpless and vivacious at the same time, a very nice gentleman stopped and changed the tire. She was charming and flirtatious with him, made him feel like he was a hero, and offered him money, which of course, he didn’t take.
That was my mom. She knew how to be a woman, even when it wasn’t for the noblest purposes. 
Although she was only seventeen years older than I, she truly was from a different era, and partly because she was, I have always felt as if I were born too late. Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, and Marilyn Monroe remain for me as iconic images of dignity, charm and beauty, respectively. Mom loved all kinds of music, and one of her favorites was 40’s and 50’s jazz. The first thing I did when I upgraded my cablevision a year ago was find the 40’s and 50’s jazz channel. That was my soundtrack as I unpacked my moving boxes. It was a subconscious nod to my mom.
It’s important to me, as I pass from the shock of this loss into resignation, to embrace her soul as it manifests in me, and to love the ways she influenced me. That doesn’t mean becoming someone else; that’s the beauty of this mourning. It is effortless. It is being aware of the dozens of times a day that I see her in something I do, of smiling at that because it’s her, and of loving her because of it. 

The Last Goodbye

I’ve been reading a little book by Henri Nouwen. In Memoriam is a tiny volume that he wrote in response to the death and life of his mother. In it, Nouwen describes his mother’s last days, and her death in a hospital bed, with all of her family around her, making her comfortable, talking with her and with each other, and with God. It beautifully expresses his love for her and his gratitude for the life of faith that she shared with him.
As I read it, I have this horrible, selfish sense of having been cheated out of something precious. Mrs. Nouwen and her family knew without doubt that she was dying. She heard and felt their expressions of love for her during her final days and hours. Her family got to say goodbye in word and actions. My mom died suddenly, unexpectedly. While she had not been well for some time, no one, not even her doctor, thought she was so sick she was in imminent danger of dying. So while I had spoken with her on the phone the day before, I hadn’t been with her, and if I had known just how sick she was, I would’ve been.
And yet, I can’t justify complaining too much. Several of my friends have mothers who have recently died or are now struggling with Alzheimer’s. Can anything be more heartbreaking than not being recognized by your own mom? And anyone who has seen someone lie in a hospital bed for months knows that the manner in which my mother went Home was in most ways a blessing. Those who die long, drawn-out deaths, tubes invading their bodies, pricked with needles and in a drug-induced stupor suffer indignities and physical and emotional torment that ought not be. My dad’s mother died that way, and her children suffered greatly right along with her. My mom did not have to endure such agony. She died where she had lived: among her pets, in her living room, comfortable in her own chair. Her best friend, who was called to the house before Mom’s body was taken away, remarked that she seemed to be smiling. I think it may have been the first time in many years she was not frightened or worried.
Would I rather she had become ill enough to go to the hospital, where she would have been poked and prodded, robbed of her privacy and dignity? Would it have been preferable for her to have spent her last days or hours worried about her pets at home without her? Would I be happier now knowing I had been with her when she died, in spite of all that? No. I hope that I could never be that selfish. As precious as it would have been to have been able to pray with Mom, to have held her hand and kissed her goodbye, it is far better that she died as she did. God knows best and He did what was best for her and for us. My last goodbye to my Mom was on the phone, the day before she died, and that will have to do for now.

Remembering Gratitude

For most of my life, I have embraced gratitude. I have known that I am blessed beyond measure, that I have so much in terms of both tangibles and intangibles. I have had an interesting life; I have lived in and have traveled to a lot of great places, and as a result I have lovely and generous friends all over the US and in Europe. I have a dad who still thinks to look after me, even now, and I had wonderful relationships with my grandparents. I have, and have had for years, darling pets that bring me a lot of joy. I value the creativity God gave to me and to others. My car runs well, I have nice clothes, a great job, a comfortable place to live, music in my stereo and in my heart. My health has been good, and better still is my life in Christ; I sense His presence and I know He hears me when I pray. That is irrefutably a life to be thankful for.
So how is it then that I look around at all that, and what overwhelms me is the hole that is left where my mom used to be? My relationship with her was, from my earliest childhood, one of the very things for which I was grateful, every day. Even during my difficult and rebellious years, we talked and laughed and enjoyed being together. I am still profoundly thankful that we were such incredibly good friends. But almost all I see now, in spite of all of that and all the good that remains in my life, is the loss of her. It permeates everything. It refuses to be ignored or forgotten, even for a moment.
I teach my classes, and then my students leave, and the first thing I think as they are walking out the door is, “Mom.” I leave school, and I reach for my phone; I used to call her when I was on my way home. My pets do something funny, I laugh, and then while the laughter is still on my lips, I remember how she was with them, or worse, that she died before she met Maggie, my Maine Coon mix. I get an email with cute pictures of pets, and I want to send it to her. I hear a song, and it reminds me of her; I see an ad for a television show she liked or a movie I wanted her to see, and I think of her. There is practically nothing in my life that doesn’t remind me that she is gone.
Don’t get me wrong: I remain grateful for all that is beautiful in my life. I know there is so much, and I am mindful of it and of the One who provides for me. I will continue to thank Him for everything. I simply want to remember to be thankful that for all of my life, Mom was a great friend, that she is finally happy and truly whole, and in the Place all creation yearns for (Romans 8), and that I will be with her again one day. I hope that soon, the overarching theme of my life will again be gratitude, instead of this pervasive sadness that has been marking my days since she left.