Happiness and Melancholy

I am a Spanish teacher and recently I was teaching the difference between two particular verbs, both translated to English as “to be.” One verb’s usage is generally for things that can change; the other is used for things that are more permanent. You can use either with the Spanish word for “happy,” but it means something different depending on the choice of verb. “Estoy feliz” means “I’m feeling happy.” “Soy feliz” means “I’m a happy person; my life is characterized by happiness.”
I would never use the second sentence to describe myself. I am funny and I laugh easily, but am I a “happy person”? Um, no. Frankly, I sometimes think people who are always happy are somehow suspect.  I am a bit of a melancholy sort, introspective and sometimes brooding. Mom was entirely different. She pursued happiness as if it were some sort of prey. She reached for it and grabbed hold of it, refusing to let go. As a young woman, she was always doing something she found fun: boating, fishing, sunbathing, dancing… she loved to have FUN. One of my favorite photos of her is when she was about 24 or 25, and she is in an evening gown, leaning against a bar, holding a cup of what appears to be coffee; more likely it is bourbon. She is smiling, or perhaps smirking is a better word, and she looks like a million bucks. Other photos taken that night are of her dancing with her second husband and some of his friends, and she was having a blast. She was the life of the party.
She was worried about me when she died. A couple of weeks prior, she and I had talked on the phone, and we talked about how I was not really happy. The combination of a lot of things in my life had me more melancholy than usual; truth be told, I was a little depressed. Not clinical or anything, just sad.  I think it was the first time she realized how melancholy I can be. She said, “I just want you to be happy, Baby. I don’t want you to be blue.” I told her that it couldn’t be helped; this is how I am and there isn’t really a remedy for it. I said I would be alright, that I was content with my work and my pets, and that was enough for now. She was really distressed by this, but I couldn’t say anything to put her mind at ease.
In Christian circles, we often downplay the importance of happiness. Joy, we are told is what is important; we hold happiness almost in contempt and speak reverently of joy. Joy comes from within and is dependent only upon our right relationship with Christ, while happiness is nothing more than a lowly emotion that relies upon our circumstances to manifest.   I remember being told once, “God doesn’t care if you are happy or not. He’s concerned about your holiness.” I know He is concerned about my holiness, or lack thereof, as is certainly a more correct assessment. On the other hand, I think saying He doesn’t care about our happiness is probably an overstatement.
I wonder if part of Mom’s illness over the past year was due to her persisting unhappiness. She had lost her ability to hold onto it, largely because her life was so damn hard, and the day-in, day-out struggle with an angry husband, constant financial pressures, worry about her grandchildren, and other dysfunctions of our family were her constant companions.  I hope you can forgive the use of the descriptive “damn” in the preceding sentence. It’s the only word that works there because we are all living outside of Eden, and our pain is the result of the Fall of man. But that’s another blog post, isn’t it?
Happiness is elusive. Like the tide, it ebbs and flows. If you try to hold onto it, it cascades through your fingers. But God help me to be more like my mom in that regard, pursuing it, like a child chasing the waves at the waters edge. It is certain that I will not always be up to my neck in it, but at least may it always be lapping at my toes. 

Lessons on Darkness

A few days ago, my stepfather and his daughter packed up and drove away with almost everything out of my mother’s home, including photos of my sister and her children, a collection of my mom’s dollar-store figurines, some of my 20 year old nephew’s high school athletic trophies, and a dog that belonged to the same nephew. They did not do this because of love, but rather out of spite and hatefulness, largely because the humble house that my mother lived in belongs to me and so they have no claim on it. How do I know this? I know it because the stepfather actually said, less than two weeks after my mother’s death, that if he couldn’t get the house in his name, he’d burn it down. I know it because of the hateful words his daughter flung at me for no reason, starting just days after my mother’s death and culminating in a phone conversation where she told me that if I wanted her father out of the house, I would have to formally evict him.  I know it because of the mean-spirited insults aimed at my dead mother that so upset my nephew that he had to leave the house in order to maintain his composure.
The day after these angry people finally vacated the house, I read the following Scripture in my favorite wilderness-season devotional, Streams in the Desert[i]:
                And the ugly and gaunt cows ate up the seven fine looking and fat cows…and
 the seven thin heads [of grain] devoured the seven plump and full heads… Genesis 41:4, 7
The author expounded on these verses and drove the point home to me: it is possible for a good life to be overcome by hatefulness, bitterness, and anger, and the transformation God has made in a person may be undone, may even be reversed, if those evil emotions are given space. It reminds me of the words to a popular Christian song: “I don’t want to end up where You found me, and it echoes in my mind, keeps me awake at night…”[ii]  These words ring true; in recent days, I’ve thought of these two people with more hatred than I thought I was capable of feeling. The depth of this darkness in myself disappoints and frightens me.
We who call ourselves by the name of Christ are called to love our enemies![iii] How do I do that? How do I love such unlovely people, people who have done things expressly to hurt me? I frankly do not know how to do this. Somehow I have to find it in me to forgive them, and I don’t know how to do that either. What I want is to punish them, make them pay for the wrongs they’ve done, the things they’ve said, the disrespect that stings my mom’s memory. But to live the teachings of my faith, I have to admit the hard truth that I don’t have the right to do that. That right belongs to Another, One whose sandals I am not fit to untie (John 1:27, Holy Bible).  He can choose retribution if He wants, but it isn’t for me to decide.
The price for failing to forgive is high: there is a certain law of reciprocity in place. Jesus said that if we forgive those who hurt us, we will be forgiven, but if we refuse to forgive, we will not be forgiven (Matthew 6:14 – 15, and 18:35). I think the reason for this is not so much God’s unwillingness to forgive us, but rather the toll taken on our souls and minds by anger and bitterness. They fester, like a dirt-filled wound, and before long, infection takes over. In the end, if the infection isn’t overcome, death results. The only way to maintain my relationship with Christ is to cleanse myself of the foul emotions that are poisoning my soul.
I know what Mom would say: “Don’t let these people destroy you, Baby Girl; they aren’t worth it.” And she’d be right. It may take me a while to accomplish, years, I would surmise, and along the way I will probably often give in to my baser self, but with the help of the One who won’t let me go, I will forgive. I know that I’m not holding on to Him, but he’s holding on to me.[iv]

[i] Cowman, L.B. and Reiman, J., Streams in the Desert, Zondervan, 1999 edition.
[ii] Casting Crowns, East to West, The Altar and the Door, 2007
[iii] Matthew 5:44, Holy Bible, Zondervan.
[iv] Casting Crowns, East to West, The Altar and the Door, 2007. 

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. 

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is Mom’s birthday. She would be 68 —  a very young 68. I wish I could be happy and simply celebrate her life today, but I can’t. The continued turmoil connected with settling her paltry estate, all caused by two very selfish people, have made that impossible. Nevertheless, my love for her is as great as it ever was, and I choose to remember her on this special day and concentrate on the joys of our relationship.
If Mom were here, I’d be with her already, taking her to the beach or to lunch. Maybe we’d go to the mall and buy her a new outfit. Maybe we’d just go lie in the sun. It wouldn’t matter because we’d be together and that would be enough. It always was. Her birthday was an occasion, but so was any day we hopped in the car together. Even if we just went to the Huddle House, it was a little mini-event because Mom made it that way, just by virtue of her vivacious personality. Those fun days we spent together were too few, too infrequent; I wish I had done more of those things with her. I suppose everyone has that sort of regrets.
I’m sad that I don’t get to celebrate her birthday with her. On the other hand, if you celebrate birthdays in Heaven, she’s having a great one. Happy Birthday, Mama. I love you! 

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.

Dreaming

Last night I dreamed about Mom. It was a good dream. She was sitting in a place that wasn’t specifically familiar to me, but for some reason it felt like home. It looked very much like “her space”: a little cluttered with too much stuff, dimly lit, and very cozy. She was young, perhaps 30 at the most, with her gorgeous black hair pulled back loosely, swept to one side over her right eyebrow.  She was slender, too. I asked her, “Mom, how much weight have you lost?” She answered, “About 45 pounds.” I said, “Well, you look great.” She smiled hugely and said something in response, but upon waking, I lost the rest of our conversation. I woke up feeling very good, and the feeling has pretty much stayed with me all day.

I’m sure it sounds like a strange dream, as most dreams are. I didn’t perceive it as strange though. I saw her much as I would expect to see her, and in an environment that seemed right. Her surroundings bore her unique stamp: comfy, dark, and overflowing with dainty knick-knacks. You see, Mom could never say no to anything pretty and sparkly if she had the money to buy it, and because she loved yard sales and second hand shops, her home was full of things that made her smile, just a few too many of them! And her house was always dark because she was forever hot-natured. She kept the blinds closed to keep out the heat of the sun, plus she eschewed overhead lights, preferring small, fancy lamps instead. So in the dream, her environment was as it should be.
The conversation about her weight is not surprising either. Mom’s beauty had been a part of her identity since she was a little girl; people often remarked about the pretty, petite girl with the mane of dark curls.  She grew into a striking young woman with a feminine figure that she kept well into middle age. She wasn’t unpleasant about it, as some beautiful women are; her beauty was simply a part of her. She was often frustrated with the aging process. Recently, it became more difficult to keep her weight down, and for the past few years, she weighed – look at this; I just counted it out so I could write it down – almost exactly 45 pounds more than she had in her youth. She said to me many times over the past year or so, “If I could just get rid of this belly!” And so, in the dream she finally has, hasn’t she?
It’s no surprise this dream makes me happy. I don’t know how much is actual reality and how much are just my thoughts of her. I do know that she is young and beautiful again, like she was; of that I am certain.  Gone is the grey hair, and also the bleach blonde she loved so much in her later years; her black, native American locks are back, and they are gorgeous against her unlined, olive skin. She is petite and pretty, and comfortable in her skin, if I can say that about her now. This is how I remember her best.
 A few weeks after Mom died, one of my friends told me of her mother-in-law’s death at 55. Apparently she was a beautiful woman; my friend even pulled out an old yearbook and showed me a picture of her to prove it. She always used to say that she would die young, my friend said. In fact, she predicted her own death at 55. It seems she knew she didn’t want to become old, elderly, even, and perhaps infirm. She wanted to be always beautiful, always young, always happy to look in the mirror. The story is double-edged. It is sad to be willing to die rather than become wrinkled and old-looking. But it is happy because this Christ-follower is, indeed, beautiful again.  As is my mom.
I hope your home There is full of mirrors, Mom. 

Closure?

Last week something important in this journey of grief took place. In an event that won’t be ignored, the monument company installed the headstone on Mom’s grave.
 On Saturday morning, I left for the cemetery; I wanted to see the headstone and take flowers, and remember her. I spent the three hour drive up to the mountains praying, listening to Christian music, and generally trying to prepare myself for my first glimpse of the completed marker. I had chosen it, requested the short epitaph, made all the arrangements. But seeing it there was earth-shaking; there are no words to adequately describe the feelings that rushed over me upon seeing that stone.
I wasn’t prepared.
My mother’s name, carved into the cold granite, and the dirt now sunken, level with the ground around the grave, delivered a powerful blow to my soul. For just a moment, I was struck again by the disbelief. Then came the realization that, after three months, it is true and there’s no sense dwelling on the surreality of it. I was and am resigned.  
For a while I busied myself with the silk flowers I’d brought for the granite vase. I dusted off the stone. I repositioned the silk flower my cousin had sent to the funeral. I took some pictures to share with my uncle, Mom’s little brother. Finally I sat down there, in the red North Carolina mountain dirt, on top of her grave, and I tried, with little success, to pray.
There is something about thinking of your mother there, UNDER THE GROUND, that breeds a sort of panic. I had a taste of it when I was leaving the cemetery after the burial, when I saw them begin to crank the coffin down into the vault. Now I knew she was there, in the cold ground, and I hurt beyond belief.
It wasn’t long before I remembered though, of course, she isn’t there. Her body is, but SHE isn’t. Not who she was and is. Not the vibrant, big personality I have loved my entire life. Not the essence of the generous, talented and fun lady everyone knew. I thought of the words to one of the songs I’d heard on the way up there: You’re in a better place, I’ve heard a thousand times.[i]  And I actually said aloud, “But knowing that doesn’t help, God.” Almost immediately, though, I blurted out, “That was stupid!” adding, “Yes, it does. It helps. It helps a lot. It just still hurts because she’s not here, and I miss her.”
This hurt won’t be put to bed by some sort of closure brought by a headstone or anything else. It just has to hurt. It won’t ever go away, but I suppose it will become less intense over time.  In the same song, MercyMe sings, “In Christ, there are no goodbyes.” Unfortunately, the song is mistaken;  there are most definitely goodbyes. However, thanks be to our sacrificial and merciful God, they aren’t permanent.  Nevertheless, “I’ve never been more homesick than now.” [ii]

[i] MercyMe, Homesick, 10, Simpleville Music.
[ii] Ibid.

The Destiny of All

Tonight I was watching a Barbara Walters show where she was talking about her and others’ experiences with open heart surgery. It drew me in because I am rather more interested in the fragility of life nowadays, as one might imagine. Walters, usually recognized for her considerable skill as an interviewer, spoke openly of her personal fear when faced with the prospect of such an invasive surgery, even of the slim but very real possibility of dying while undergoing it, and her co-stars on her daily television show, The View, weighed in. I was appalled to hear one of them, Whoopie Goldberg, say with incredulity, “This wasn’t some namby-pamby person. This was Barbara Walters! Of course she was going to be alright.”
I couldn’t help but think, “Really, Ms. Goldberg? Did you really just say that? Did you seriously mean to imply that my mom wasn’t famous enough, or smart enough, or successful enough, or WHATEVER enough to be protected from the final enemy?” I’m not usually all that sensitive, and especially not at the comments of celebrities. I tend to write them off as “too big for their britches,” to use a term that will certainly expose my Southern roots, but the comment caught me so off-guard; I didn’t expect to hear anything quite so asinine. Could anyone really think that Barbara Walters’ fame, intelligence, success or anything else will protect her from death? Death comes to all, whether of high or low estate, doesn’t it? Job 30:23 assures us that death is “the place appointed for all the living.”[i] That wisest of all men, Solomon, reminds us, “…death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart.”[ii]
On the same show, Walters interviewed former President Clinton, Robin Williams and David Letterman about their similar experiences. She asked Williams and Letterman if they had been changed as a result of facing such a serious and potentially fatal surgery. Williams spoke reverently of gratitude, and Letterman of living his life differently, of being a better person. Walters asked former President Clinton what he would tell people who were facing heart disease and possible surgery. He responded, “Look at us. We got a second chance.” Walters affirmed all their feelings as similar to her own. These four survivors, perhaps because of having to face their own fragility, recognize the fragility of us all. They have “taken to heart” the destiny of everyone. It makes it a little easier to forgive those who, in trying to be witty, reveal that they have not done so. May God help them, and may He help us all.

[i] Holy Bible, New International Version
[ii] Ecclesiastes 7:2, Holy Bible, New International Version

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.