Courageous

I got an email today encouraging me to be courageous. This is me, trying to do that.

It's been almost a year and a half since my mom died (Friday marks the day). Overall, things are easier. I can remember her before her stroke. I've started expecting good things instead of bad. I have a great community, a loving boyfriend, faithful friends and a deep connection with Jesus.

But grief still comes in waves.

I'm still watching Gilmore girls (and even more so now that it's on Netflix!)

Sometimes I relive those last days as if they were yesterday.

I wish I could talk to my best friend: about boys, about haircuts, about family, about how much I love her.

I'm trying to balance grief and gratitude.

My eyes are so puffy it looks like they got bit by mosquitos.

And more than anything today I'm feeling the pain of loving her more than one more day.

All is not better. I still miss her so much I want to throw up. But it will get better. Slowly, with lots of help and lots of love. I have a lot to look forward to after this wave of grief recedes.

October 5

Today is my birthday. And it's been a hard one.

Harder than last year. Even though last year was my first birthday without my mom, I still felt connected to her - I celebrated in San Jose, and even invited my friends to sleep over at my dad's. She wasn't there, but she still was. Her chair was there, her presence.

This year she's so much farther away. This year she's really gone. This year I'm really without her. This year, last year, every year from now she's not calling me to wish me a happy birthday (even though that's what I want more than anything in the world).

Even with an amazing birthday weekend spent with my boyfriend, even with beautiful friends who celebrated me today in thoughtful ways, I'm missing her. Missing her so much.

I wish, instead of missing her, I could just stay in the other birthday moments, the magical ones, the special ones. Because I know she'd want me to. Because I want to. Because I want my birthday to be filled with joy, not grief.

I should know by now that that's not how that works. Joy and grief - they aren't opposites. More often than not they go hand in hand, they exist right next to each other. Can I sit in that tension?

Today I don't want to. But maybe, tomorrow, since I'm now a year older and wiser, it'll make a little more sense.

August 19, again

I've been feeling anxious lately. And there are a lot of good reasons for it - I just quit one of my part-time jobs (not my job with InterVarsity) and I'm taking classes at the local community college so I can become a nurse. I am pre-nursing, as they say.

It's a lot of change: quitting a job I had since before my mom was sick, getting back into school. And the last time big, potentially hard, change happened it wasn't just bad. It was earth-shattering, life-altering, your mom is going to die bad. So me and change aren't really good friends right now.

Today I went to my classes, and the world didn't implode. So that's a plus one in the pro column for this going-back-to-school change. But when I got home from class I was still feeling anxious. Overwhelmed. Like I wanted to sit on my floor with lots of tissues and cry my eyes out. (Which I might be doing as I type.)

And then I realized. Today is August 19.

Three years ago, to the day, my mom had her stroke, and my world DID implode. Everything did fall apart. I was able, with the help of family, friends, and Jesus, to put it back together again, mostly. But three years ago today the worst change I've ever experienced happened.

So I guess that's why I've been so anxious. Why this smaller change of going back to school has felt so big. I think that's a pretty good reason for my freak out. It makes me feel a little more sane.

What are the chances I would start school on the same day my mom had her stroke? Sometimes the universe has a funny sense of humor.

God Our Mother

Today, I'm reflecting on this:



The description of this album is: "Created in honor of Mother's Day, God our Mother is a liturgy that explores both the scriptures that speak of God in a maternal context and the limits of human language in describing an infinite God. "

God is infinite, vast, greater than our human dichotomies. And I don't have an earthly mother anymore. So I need a heavenly mother, a forever mother, just as much as I need a heavenly father.

The rest of the album is found here: theliturgists.bandcamp.com/album/god-our-mother

Tracks 1 - 3. Those are for me today. May they bless you too.

Is it okay?

Yesterday I asked my mom if it was okay that I don't think about her all the time. I asked her if it was okay that I don't cry ever day anymore, that I don't miss her every moment, that I don't always think about the hole she left.

And she said, "Of course. I want you to be happy. I love you."

Because I don't - I don't think about her all the time. Not that I don't miss her - I do, a lot. But I don't think about it every second of every day anymore. I've finally come out of the haze of grief. Grief doesn't have the same hold it once had on my life anymore. Grief isn't taking over my days. Grief isn't the first thing I feel in the morning and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep at night.

I can look at her picture, conjure up a memory of her, be reminded of her and feel sad - but not overwhelmed. I can move again, I can dream again, I can smile again.

And I know that makes her glad.

Yesterday was a good day. Today has been a good day too. And even though I say this now - that I'm not slammed by grief, that I'm not overtaken - I know that some days I will be. So today, I reserve the right to be fine, to be happy. Tomorrow, two weeks from now, two months from now, I reserve the right to be whatever I feel like being.

Maybe grief will take over again for a little while - and that will be okay. But today, tonight, I just imagine her smile.

Every moment

I don't often talk to my mom. I'm not the person who goes out to her grave and has long conversations with her. I only occasionally tell her things, out loud or in my head, and they're mostly things like, "I miss you," and, "I love you."

But today I needed prayer. And I really wanted to call my mom and ask her to pray for me.

After crying a little bit about the fact that I can't do that anymore, I realized that I kinda can.

So I talked to her. I asked her to pray for me. I asked her to pray for me when she does her devotionals every morning, and when she falls asleep with her prayer journal on the nightstand beside her. I told her I couldn't do it without her prayers behind me, without her prayers holding me up. (And the tears kept coming, because I could picture her doing her devotionals every morning, and I could picture her prayer journal sitting on the nightstand.)

And then I heard her say, "Oh darling, I'm praying for you, every moment of every day."

And that was exactly what I needed to hear. (And exactly what sent me bawling.)

I don't know if its just what I wanted her to say in my head. Or if its God somehow speaking through my memory of my mother. I don't know, and I don't care. All I know - all I hope - is that my mom is out there, somewhere, praying for me, every moment of every day.

"And what about those who don't have a mother?"

I didn't go to church today. The official reason is that I hadn't completed a full 24 hours of my strep throat antibiotics, and I might have still been contagious. But honestly, I'm so thankful for that excuse. Because mostly I hate going to church on Mother's Day.

In fact, I hate going anywhere on Mother's Day. I need more contact solution, but I would rather wear my somewhat uncomfortable glasses then brave Walgreens on a day like today. Church, stores, social media, commercials - all things to be avoided on a day celebrating the mother I don't have any more.

I thought it would be easier this year. Last year, Mother's Day fell exactly one week after my mom's memorial service, and about three and half weeks after she died. My dad and sister and I went out to lunch and shared stories about my mom and it felt fine. Good, even. So this year, past the one year mark, after having a breakdown-free Mother's Day last year, it should be easier, right?

HA!

I can't even bring myself to wish my friends who are mothers a happy Mother's Day. It's selfish, I know, but it just hurts too much. How can you be happy on a day like this? And my friends who are mothers who are themselves motherless, unmothered - I can't even imagine how they do it.

Today, articles like this one give words to my grief. They tell me I'm not overreacting by hiding today. And they remind me that I'm not alone.