Good Friday (a day late)

I made it through Maundy Thursday. Thursday - the one year anniversary of my mom's death. "Anniversary" always sounds too happy, to celebratory to be followed by "of my mom's death." So Thursday - the one year mark.

Then Friday. Good Friday - the emotional hangover day from Thursday. Good Friday, the day we remember Jesus dying on the cross. The day we feel the pain and despair of Jesus' death.

I was really nervous about Good Friday. I had already felt the pain and despair of death the day before, and I didn't think I could handle any more. But this year, instead of pain, instead of heartache, I felt joy. I felt the Good that makes this Friday good.

What's the Good? What can be good about Jesus dying, painfully, humiliatingly? What can be good about the death of someone who was supposed to save people living under Roman oppression?

The Good is that Jesus died. He died. He didn't get taken up in a chariot of fire (even though he could have), he didn't live immortally on earth (even though he could have). He died. Jesus, who was fully divine, fully God, died. Gods aren't supposed to die - especially not human deaths.

But Jesus died. Jesus went through what every single human being goes through - death. Jesus didn't skip over the hard, ugly, sad part of humanity. He experienced it, he felt it, he died. And he didn't just die an easy, comfortable death. He died a horribly painful and agonizingly slow death. He hung in pain, gasping for breath and crying for respite ("My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?").

Jesus' death on Good Friday, even more than his birth, is the incarnation for me. Is the moment where Jesus truly knows what it means to be human, to be broken, to be falling apart, even though he didn't do anything to deserve it. Jesus felt death; he died. Just like you will, just like I will, just like my mom did.

So when the memories of my mom's last few days play before my eyes - when I remember the pain and effort every breath took - I remember Jesus' death. I remember that he knows what it's like to feel pain at the end. He know what it's like to struggle for breath. He knows what it's like for your body to shut down. He knows because he experienced it.

And that is good news. That is compassion - suffering with. That is why I follow Jesus - fully human, fully divine, who died and rose again.

From St. Luke's Hospital (2)

"If I can learn a little how to die,
To die while body, mind, and spirit still
Move in their triune dance of unity,
To die while living, dying I'll fulfill
The purpose of the finite in infinity.
If God will help me learn to die today,
Today in time I'll touch eternity,
And dying, thus will live within God's Way.
If I can free myself from self's iron bands,
Freed from myself not by myself, but through
Christ's presence in this simple room, in hands
Outstretched in holy friendship, then, born new
In death, truth will outlive the deathly lie,
And in love's light I will be taught to die."

--- The Weather of the Heart by Madeleine L'Engle

Maundy Thursday

The reading for today, Maundy Thursday, from the Book of Common Prayer:

"Let this be recorded for a generation to come,
    so that a people yet to be created may praise the Lord:
19 that he looked down from his holy height;
    from heaven the Lord looked at the earth,
20 to hear the groans of the prisoners,
    to set free those who were doomed to die,
21 that they may declare in Zion the name of the Lord,
    and in Jerusalem his praise,
22 when peoples gather together,
    and kingdoms, to worship the Lord."

--- Psalm 102: 18 - 22 (emphasis added)

If I don't go to sleep...

If I don't go to sleep then tomorrow will never come, right?

If I don't go to sleep then it will never be the one year anniversary of my mom's death.

If I don't go to sleep then my mom will always have been gone less than a year.

Less than a year I can handle. Less than a year of seeing someone is fine. But a year? More? Then it's just too real. Then it's just too much time since I last saw her, spoke to her, kissed her cheek, held her hand.

I know I'm not supposed to dread tomorrow. It doesn't have to be the worst day ever, blah blah blah. But how can I not dread it? How can I not dread the day I've been preparing for since last April 17th? How do you even prepare for something like this?

Maybe, if I don't go to sleep...

Birthday cards

I have these two birthday cards that I gave my mom last year. One is a popup card of the beach that has recorded wave sounds and seagull calls when you press a button. The other is the bright pink birthday crown that says "Birthday Princess" on it that she wore pretty much all day.

Last year her birthday was the beginning of the end. By the end of the day her crown was off and she'd had a catheter put in. The beach card would still make her smile when she heard it, but her eyes wouldn't always open. Every day after it just got worse and worse.

She died two weeks after her birthday. Two weeks from today will be the one year anniversary of her death.

I don't really know what the next two weeks will look like. But I do know that it feels like I'm re-entering the murky waters of grief that I was able to step out of last month. It's both familiar and frightening.

Today, to celebrate her birthday I made dessert for my small group. Chocolate Amaretto Cheesecake (her specialty), and an apple crisp. I'll probably stare at the cards for awhile, as I sit and remember.

And then we'll just see where tomorrow takes me.

Filler (eleven months)

I think this month's mostly filler.

Yesterday was eleven months. Honestly, it sounds like a weird number. Ten sounded normal, twelve is where the vocab switches to a year, but eleven just seems so liminal. 

This month feels liminal too, like the calm before the storm. Or at least the most calm, the least grief-filled a month has been in a long, long time (two years and seven months, but who's counting).

I'm happy to live in this in-between state, especially when it's filled with sunshine. But everything looks towards April. I catch myself looking forward in my calendar, completely skipping over and forgetting that it's still only March. Instead I feel the pull of impending doom - the month that holds both my mom's birthday and deathday. Oh, and Easter, for good measure. Thank goodness it also holds spring break and days off and hopefully some rest. 

So this month on the 17th, instead of being intentional with my grief, I got a massage, and watched the Veronica Mars movie (so good, for all you marshmallows out there), and made Reuben sandwiches, and spent time with  a good friend. Because what's an anniversary without Veronica Mars? And why not? I still think this month's mostly filler. 

Ash Wednesday, again

Remember you are dust, and to dust you will return.

Today the season of Lent begins. A season to mourn, to pray, to be reminded that we are ashes, we are human, we make mistakes. In the Christian tradition people often give up something for the 40 days leading up to Easter, to fast and empty themselves like Jesus fasted in the desert before starting his ministry.

Last year, when people asked me what I was giving up for Lent, I said I was giving up my mom. It was a little bit of gallows humor, but also pretty true. She died 17 days after Easter.

This year I'm giving up my mom for Lent again, but in a different way.

Last Sunday my housemate, who knows what its like to lose a mom, prayed for me after church. She prayed that I could give my mom over to God, and that I could release the grief that I had been holding onto for more than two years. After she prayed for me I felt lighter, freer, happier. I've had three good days in a row, which, after a hard February, feels pretty amazing.

So this year, instead of being a time of mourning, Lent is going to be a time of preparing. A time of preparing for Easter, preparing for the resurrection of Jesus, preparing for hope.

For these next 40 days I'm going to keep releasing my grief and giving it back to God, who can hold it better than I can. For these next 40 days I'm going to remember to be present, to see God's little resurrections all around me. For these next 40 days I'm going to live the promise of the tree of life, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations.

I don't really know what this looks like. There may be days when God says, "here, grieve a little bit. It's important, and a part of your healing." There may be days when I have to eat lots of chocolate to make it through. I'm hoping there are days where I can spend time with good friends in the midst of trees and babbling brooks, outside of the city and outside of the norm. I'm hoping there are days where I sit in coffee shops sipping hot beverages and reading good books. I'm hoping there are more days of joy and beauty and hope than I've had in a long time. And I'm hoping that there are days of remembering, remembering her, with love and with longing, and maybe even a little bit of peace.

This year for Lent I'm giving up my mom. I'm letting go of my grief. And I'm remembering the promises of healing, of life in death, of hope.