Category Archives: mourn

Consequences

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom lately. So many things about where I’m living now, Belgium, remind me of her. We were together in Germany for several years when I was a teenager, so my life and hers were inextricably wrapped up in European scenery, food, art, people. Those who followed this blog from its inception remember that I always wanted to bring her back here, to relive some of our memories and let her see some places she always wanted to see; I never got to do that, unfortunately.
Yesterday I went to Amsterdam to visit the Van Gogh Museum there. It is an interesting city, not one of my favorites by any means, but interesting nonetheless. It is both beautiful and ugly, in both literal and symbolic ways, with its gorgeous canals and dramatic architecture on the one hand, and its red light district and numerous druggies and street people on the other. Fascinating is a better term than interesting, I would have to say.
When you’re in Amsterdam, you can’t help but notice the many people on bicycles. Literally hundreds. They ride because the traffic is terrible and because it’s cheap, I suppose. They are of all ages, from youths to older people. They are evidently ridiculously fit. I saw one lady, probably at least 70, bent over and bundled up in a coat and scarf with sensible, old-lady shoes, riding her bike purposefully and carefully. I was amazed, thinking back to how young Mom was when she died, just 67, and how unfit she was, how feeble, at such a young age.
Later I saw another older woman, this one probably closer to 80 but even more fit looking than the one on the bicycle. She was very thin, with very short, spiky white hair. She was wearing skinny jeans and running shoes, and she was walking with great vigor. I thought, “Mom. How different might your life have been if you had lived here. Or maybe if you hadn’t let your world shrink so much.” From a vital, fun-loving woman who had traveled and lived abroad, my mom became a homebody whose world was confined at best to small regions of two southern US states and at worst, to two tiny counties in the smaller and lesser of those two states.
Both my mom and her mother became unfit at early ages. I suppose it was due to several factors. First, they smoked. That was probably a big part of the problem. Second, they both moved when they were in their early 60’s to places where there were kind of isolated, where they didn’t have a lot of reason to get out of the house much, didn’t have many friends. As a result, they stayed inside, didn’t have much of a social life, and didn’t get exercise. Finally, things happened with their health and personal lives that depressed them and sucked some of the life out of them, and health issues made it harder for them to leave their houses and the rest of their small worlds.
As happy as I am here in Belgium, I still think of Mom so often, and I have so many wishes that she might’ve done things differently, that she might’ve lived longer, better, and more healthily. Makes me think about my own choices, about keeping fit, about not overeating or drinking too much.  But really, how much power do we have over that part of our destiny?  The husband of one of my friends, a health-conscious, fit man, not yet old, died in his sleep a few years ago. The truth is, when it’s time to go, it’s time. Still, I wish Mom had been able to be like that woman with the spiky white hair, walking with strength in her step and a light in her eyes, in spite of her advanced age. We might’ve traveled to Europe again. I would’ve liked that. She would’ve, too.

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. 

Generous Empathy

A few nights ago, my phone rang and I didn’t answer it, as I was occupied with something else. Several minutes later, I listened in anguish to my voicemail, as a friend tearfully told of his mother’s death the day before. I called him back and wept with him as he told of his all-too-familiar disbelief and overwhelming grief, her relative vigor in spite of being in a nursing home, and his recent hopeful thoughts that she might actually outlive him. In spite of everything I’ve gone through in the past months, I didn’t have anything to say to him except that I am so sorry.
He is the second of my friends who have lost their moms in the past few weeks. In both cases, the ladies were quite elderly, had lived long and relatively healthy lives almost right up to the end, and their adult children and grandchildren knew they had only a little more time with them. Nevertheless…death came as a hateful shock and left behind people feeling like orphans. I wanted to help my friends somehow, to say something that would assuage their sorrowful hearts. My pastor recently spoke about how God’s dealings with us are not for us only, that they are meant to teach us and lead us to a place of generous empathy for the pain of others, and I’ve lived that truth out in the past. I’ve experienced the joyful awe of being an agent of comfort for someone because of what I’ve gone through. This time, though, when my friend called, I had nothing of value to say.
As I drove home this evening, I realized I was, and am, a little depressed. My friend’s phone call is on my mind, making me remember. I can still hear my uncle’s voice on the phone telling me, “Your mama’s dead.” He didn’t mean to sound insensitive, and I suppose he was hurting so much he wasn’t thinking clearly, but those words call out in my head over and over, and each time they tear my emotions apart. I think of my friends hearing those words from someone, and it breaks my heart all over again.
Losing my mom has made me more sensitive, and I am particularly empathetic toward those who are suffering loss. I’m glad to have this heightened empathy, but the ache in my own soul intensifies when someone, even someone with whom I’m not close, loses someone they love. Perhaps my own grief is too recent, too fresh and raw for me to draw on that empathy in a way that will help them. Maybe time will do its work and I will eventually be able to minister to others. For now, I just don’t think anything I might say will help them or me. Their grief, like mine, must be allowed to take its course, as long as it must, and generous empathy will have to wait.

Still

So it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything in the blog. Part of it is busyness. Part of it is an attempt to escape.
I have often thought of things I wanted to say in this medium. There is a stack of ideas in my head. They are not yet on paper. Every time I’ve thought of something I wanted to write about, I’ve gotten myself involved in some other activity and put the ideas out of my mind. They recede into the shadows but reemerge shortly, in vague feelings of melancholy or overwhelming waves of grief. They are always with me because thoughts of Mom are always with me.
In August, I went in to see my doctor for my yearly physical. She always chats with me a bit before getting to the exam. As usual she asked me, “So how are you doing?” I responded, “Well, it’s been a tough few months. My mom died last November.” And the tears started. When she was able to wipe the stunned look off her face, she recommended antidepressants, and I didn’t argue.
In recent months, I have moved home to a coastal city where Mom and I lived when I was little. I had wanted desperately to move back here while she was alive, as it would put me within two hours of her house. The move away from here just three years ago seemed so right at the time; I sincerely thought that an extra hour in the commute to her house would not be all that significant. I was so wrong. It was a terrible, horrible decision. That extra hour made an easy day trip impossible, and I was no longer able to be the kind of help she desperately needed. I am absolutely convinced that the absence of my frequent help contributed to her death. That is hard to take but take it I must. So here I am again, “home,” and I’m glad to be here. Nevertheless, it is bittersweet. Reminders of her are all around, and knowing I managed to get back here too late is a dagger in my soul.
My doctor said something to me as she was discussing the antidepressants: “I want you to feel sad when you think of your mother. I just don’t want it to stop you from living your life.” I think Mom would agree with that, frankly. I can go on. I can live my life, spend time with friends, even laugh and have fun. Nevertheless, the ache is always there, the knowing that she is not here with me, and yes, the wishing I had made different choices. I feel her presence and her absence at the same time, and sometimes it invades my whole being. Medicine may help, but there is no remedy for this, except maybe for time, doing its work, little by little. 

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.

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.

Paris

Last summer I took Mom to the beach. She lived about an hour from one of the US’s major beaches, and all her life, she loved the ocean, the beach and the sun. Her mobility had gotten to the point that although she could drive herself there just fine, it was not possible for her to get onto the beach by herself, so one day I drove down, picked her up and off we went. We spent about three hours lying in the sun and sitting in the water. We talked and laughed and had so much fun. We planned to do it again, but the weather didn’t cooperate. So. That was the last time Mom went to the beach.

Mom had traveled a lot in her life; she had lived in Germany, Colorado, California, and all over the Southeast US. She had seen parts of Germany from the back of a Harley Davidson. There were so many places she had not seen, though; and everywhere I have traveled, I have thought of taking Mom.

The first time I saw Times Square, I thought, “Oh, Mom, I wish you could see this!” When I saw “Les Miserables,” “Gypsy,” and “Wicked” on Broadway, Mom was there, in my thoughts; she would’ve loved those shows. Every time I went to Spain, I thought about how wonderful it would be to take her there; she would’ve been fascinated by Las Ramblas. A couple of years ago I made it to Paris for the first time. Mom had always wanted to go there. When I gave her the earrings I bought for her, she said with unashamed delight, “Oh, my goodness! Whenever anyone complements me on them, I’ll say, ‘Thank you so much. My daughter bought them in PARIS.'” I have friends in Wisconsin and Chicago, and some of them are Mom’s friends now, too. One of them, in particular, wanted me to bring her to Wisconsin to visit, and I wanted to do that so much. She would’ve loved the farm, the countryside, the depth of the conversations about life and faith. She loved Southern Gospel music, and I have thought for years of taking her to a Gaither Homecoming show, but for one reason or another, I never did.

I can’t help but think of all the things she won’t ever get to do now. And as a consequence, there are lots of things we won’t do together. Yes, the memories we made together are still there, and they will last as long as my mind does, but it isn’t enough; it just isn’t enough at all, not for me, nor for her. The places she didn’t see, the things she didn’t do, the people she didn’t meet…she won’t. 

It makes me so sad that she never saw Paris.

Finality

Yesterday a friend and I drove down to Mom’s and cleaned out her bedroom and bath. It was a bittersweet day: physically demanding and emotionally volatile, filled with memories. Obviously, it had to be done, and the whole house eventually will have to be cleaned out, but her bedroom and bath are so intensely personal. I was glad to have my friend with me; it would’ve been impossible without her because the memories were profound and the sadness overwhelming.
Many of her favorite garments were items I had bought for her when I had taken her shopping from time to time over the past five or six years. They were fun memories. Mom loved Belk and we would start there, looking for red dot clearance items.  One piece, an aqua colored top with sparkles around the neckline, made me take in my breath—she loved that top so much. It was flowy, filmy and on top of that, sparkly – all of her favorite things in one. She didn’t have many opportunities to wear it because she very rarely went anywhere over the last couple of years, but she did manage to enjoy that blouse a few times. When I removed from a drawer a pair of turquoise Capri pants that she wore often, I paused and held them to my face; memories of her rushed into my mind and for a moment, I could barely breathe. Suddenly I was holding the pants against my cheek and weeping into their softness.
This particular act, the cleaning out her bedroom, bathroom and closet, is an act of finality that beggars comparison. The most personal of items, taken from chests of drawers and bathroom cabinets, tossed into huge bags of black plastic, and given to others to use, or worse, thrown into the garbage bin, puts a period on the end of the sentence in a way even the interment service did not. Finality. She won’t need any of those things anymore.