These were the words I said just this past Sunday — that is, Mother’s Day — to one of my sweet sisters-in-the-Lord.
After my last post, and some time spent further with the Lord that afternoon, I went, heart full, to our church’s Mother’s Day fellowship. While there, I got to love on and — more accurately — be loved on by the wonderful mothers in my life, here in this new chapter of NYC. At the end of this time of fellowship, with more happy memories of testimony and laughter added to my heart, a sudden moment standing face-to-face with this sister-friend and this statement settled in my heart: “I’m okay.”
It was so unexpected that I said it out loud to her, with a little hesitancy: “I think I’m okay…”
To clarify, there was no context of conversation prior to this statement. As far as my friend was concerned, this was utterly random to the current moment. But, as though her spirit knew at least the spirit of the words, her immediate response: “Praise God!”
I repeated it the next night to another dear friend — one of those mother-figure mentors of mine — with a sense of nervous excitement. It was as though I stepping from the edge of a cliff, with only the harness of a zip-line transforming a sure drop to death into an exhilarating journey through the air to some unknown end-platform.
This week, I’ve reflected on it. A week of work and time with friends and church — a normal week in the life. And, even as other struggles threaten my peace of mind, this statement still rings true. Other struggles threaten my peace of mind, but they are not overlaid with the (at most) debilitating or (at least) depressing weight of grief.
Time to move on? Perhaps that’s the simple answer of it. Yet, the grief will still come, I know. Even this week there have been moments of missing Mom. But, it’s been colored with the light of life and future dreams.
The Lord has brought about some big dreams in my life: dear friendship and community, the opportunity to study my favorite subject in school, a new home in the city in which I’d never imagined I’d actually live. As I’ve expressed before, these dreams have been so much out of the pure generosity and abundant grace of God. And now, it’s as though I’m in a new chapter of partnership with Him. Of Him setting a new, seemingly impossible, task ahead of me: pursuing my dream of editing and writing.
Whether it continues to look as it does now in the realm of freelance or within the structure of a larger company, I do not know what my future holds. But, this I do know: with the Lord before and behind, beside and within me, I will walk on.
Happy Mother’s Day. It’s hard to believe, but it has been nearly 8 years since I began writing these letters. And it began on Mother’s Day, because on how much more fitting a day could such a blog begin?
A dear sibling asked just the other day how Mother’s Day was looking for me this year. In a good place at the time, I said that it seemed that today would be better than usual. Especially in light of my birthday perhaps being one of the most difficult this year — that is, I thought I’d cried all my tears.
I thought wrong.
Last night it hit. Thinking of how much I would love to visit home and see your excitement as I observed from a front row seat for the five years that Joel, being out of the house after graduation, and Katie received upon their visits until your passing. You were always so excited, outwardly exuberant, and — when it not surprised with a visit — joyfully determined in getting all preparations ready for their homecoming. I didn’t realize until after I left for university, and even more so now that I’m halfway across the country, how I’d looked forward to that same expression on your face. The assurance of the same welcoming heart. Getting to process all the things with you, even as I did on those senior year afternoons when it was only six hours and half-a-mile that separated us. (How much more would those conversations mean when it was six months and 1,500 miles separate us?)
Of course, I do love visiting family, and they welcome me with love and joy. Yet, as today is Mother’s Day, I am reminded of my mother since birth. The one who has had a lifelong impact, even if you have not been here for the last 8 years of it.
The LORD, in His loving grace reminded me that there will be an even better Homecoming day. When I will not be arriving for a visit, but to remain. And I know that the joy I saw when you welcomed your son and daughter-in-love home for visits will pale in comparison with the joy shining from your countenance when you welcome us Home to our Father. And even that will pale in comparison with the glory of His face that will shine over all of creation with simply His presence.
Oh, Mom. I’ve reflected much as of late on Paul’s words that “to live is Christ and to die is gain.”1 I’m afraid my heart is still working on the first bit. The heart of his words revealed through his following explanation is that to live is to serve his brothers- and sisters-in-Christ (and to continue in evangelism). This is where I am learning and have much need to grow. And, where I also see so much of the completion of God’s work in you. I know you weren’t perfect, and I’m sure you would say that your heart was not always in the service you did for others, but what I saw was service after service after service of others. Both believers and non-believers. I think of how you “worked” at Color Me Mine before you were ever on the payroll. You saw a need (most often for action) and filled it. I saw the fruit. Even when I know you struggled to “know your place” as you once shared with me.
Here I am, Mom. In that place of struggling to “know my place” and yearning for the Promise I know is ahead. Yet, I am encouraged again in my study of His word today that He brought to mind: “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”2 He prepared them inadvance. Thus, even in His foreknowledge of my sin, He has prepared these works that I would walk in them. Even in His foreknowledge of my doubts, He has ordained beforehand all these days that I would live out unhidden from His sight.3
So, now maybe it is sixty years — and infinite miles (or perhaps less than a nanometer) separating us, but I will make it Home, by God’s grace. And, until then, I thank Him for the first example I was set in what being a mother means. And for every “mother” He has provided since.
I went to Color Me Mine this weekend. It was the first time I’d been — at least as I can remember — since the one time I went after your death, nearly 8 years ago.
But, even though this shop occupied a busy street corner in the Upper West Side of New York City, and I went with three dear friends who had not done this before, and (apparently) the detail bottles have been discontinued — from the moment I walked in, I felt the familiarity. The process of being welcomed in, sat at a square table and given the ceramic paint palette, brushes, and water bowls, and instructed in the basic techniques and expectation to receive our finished product in 1-2 weeks. The atmosphere: friends chatting, kids laughing, attendants giving advice and encouragement to the (often amateur) artists. The fresh and earthy smell of the ceramics all displayed on light wooden shelves along the wall paired with the smell of the paint, especially that in use at every table (and gracing many of the hands using it). Dryness clinging to the air itself as though to encourage the faster application of multiple coats for the best results in less time.
Of course, upon entering and choosing a piece — a small mug with a flower design imprinted into the pottery itself — I saw a design I liked on a similar plate and asked an attendant for the technique. She told me, and as it didn’t seem to difficult to try, I had my plan for the evening. Needless to say, even with the two and a half hours we spent there, I did not finish my piece. But, all of my girlfriends did, and enjoyed the experience.
One of my favorite things came in coaching them through the basics and when asked if I had done it before/how often, my own surprise as I put a number to it: I’d done it for nearly eight years! (And then hadn’t for almost as long.) Truly, the whole experience felt — to use a classic cliche — like riding a bike. Yet, even in the familiarity and nostalgia, there was the freshness: a new shop, new friends, a new technique, a new place in my life.
I had told others before, and of course during this little outing, of our family history with this specific business — how we had gone so often that when you were looking for that part-time job to fill your time when we were all out of the house with school, working there naturally fit. Yet, that time, this simple experience of painting a ceramic — I forgot the extensive (if unobtrusive) place it had in my life for nearly one third of my life.
Mom, this year has been one of remembering. Not you, specifically, but the pieces of my life surrounding those core memories I’ve been, shall I say, practically obsessed with remembering.
But, through this experiential remembrance, I’ve realized — as I told Mary Faith — even more similarities in our personality. In particular, the obsessive care and attention to detail. Okay, I know yours was to a certain extent mine may never be; however, this care for the details provides the foundation to my love for editing, proofreading, even formatting a design. The detail work that others may get bored with, I get to do unto the LORD knowing that He cares for the details, even as He placed in you and me a more intuitive love for the same.
I’m learning to remember well. To do so, not in the vacuum of my own mind and heart, but in the community of new shared memories.
I think it’s fitting that as I’m writing this, we mark the eighth anniversary of your funeral celebrations. For it was the week after that I began my marathon — my sprint-turned-cross country (literally) race to move on from the shock and pain of that day. I’ve been so set on finally reaching the finish line. Getting to the place where it hurts less, and I have answers. Straining toward a time when I can truly live life without you with actual happiness and contentment. Ironically, it seems to be as I’m slowing that I’m actually able to do so.
I’m not crying. I may tomorrow. I may not. But, I think I’m getting better. Better for the sake of remembering.
I had a mission trip this past week. A team of eleven of my church family traveled to Puerto Rico where we were the final of over 30 teams to build a new home for a single mother. Our part consisted of sealing the entire home. Each crack had to be filled and sanded in preparation for then painting sealant over the wood. The last day we cleaned inside and out — finishing the outside with a bit of yard work. (In spite of actually wearing sunscreen — I know you’d be proud — I still managed to get sunburned. But most of it is already going to a nice tan, so I’m happy to grin and bear it.)
The work was simple, yet vital. For if the wood was not sealed, in their wet atmosphere and weather, the home freshly built would become quickly as bad as before. Of course, I made a joke or two in the process, punning on the “sealing” process. One of them referenced our own sealing that we have. Our being sealed by the Spirit.
It’s one of the most amazing things to me. And with equal gratitude for the cross, the fact that the Holy Spirit seals me for His Kingdom also sets the firm foundation of my peace, my joy. I have so many days of doubt. Not in His existence, His goodness, His faithfulness, His sovereignty — no, I doubt my part in it.
It’s wild, Mom. I have such moments of rebellion in my heart, body, strength, perhaps even soul. But, He stays. He reminds me, not of what I should be doing, per se, but simply of His presence. Not in some fantastic, exuberant way — just, the simple facts that He’s real. He’s here. He died for me and no amount of my own erratic emotions will change that. His Spirit is within me. Of course, my inner chaos does not excuse disobedience, or the root of evil to dwell in my heart. And that is where I know He lives! I know His Spirit remains as His faithful, wonderful deposit within me! Because even as He reminds me of His presence, He guides me back to His path of righteousness — of heart, body, strength, and soul.
In a couple of days I’ll turn twenty-six, and the next day will mark eight years since I last saw you. I’m still grappling with that. I’m starting to wonder if my grief is the thorn not to leave my side. I know the facts, the hope, the peace, the joy. What a profoundly blessed grace our GOD has given in Christ! To know this is not the end! The grief colors it dark blue with Homesickness. For to be reminded of Heaven — for me — is to long to be there. With the Savior who introduced Himself through the example of Dad and you. With the GOD in Heaven whose presence you experience in fullness even now.
That’s what happened on this mission trip — the Homesickness weighed heavy. Though glad to be there and serving, my heart longed to be elsewhere. And though right now we are flying home to New York, the city is not His City.
Worshiping brought peace. As we sat in a circle most of the nights, singing songs to the LORD, and the songs were the words my lips had trouble saying. We sang the song “Build My Life” on Sunday morning at the church with whom we partnered this week, and as we sang the bridge, I imagined the joy that would fill your heart were you here to hear me sing those words from the place I am today. In that moment, with my heart weighed heavily with Homesickness and the anxiety of wanting to outwardly express the well of joy within but struggling to do so, those words spoke what I could not:
“I will build my life upon Your love It is a firm foundation. I will put my trust in You alone And I will not be shaken.”
My heart clings to the truth behind those words. Anchored in the words of David’s psalm: “Truly my soul finds rest in God; my salvation comes from Him. Truly He is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken” (Psalm 62:1-2). I am not shaken because that same rock and salvation lives within me. The very act of putting one foot before the next is the evidence of His presence in my life.
I sympathize with the world’s need to distract itself to death. Quite literally. Those who do not know the LORD have no hope, no security, no peace. Of course, it’s cause after cause and pursuit after pursuit, whether optimistically philanthropic or realistically hedonistic — the world distracts itself from the death it cannot escape. Meanwhile, the LORD provided me a stark look in the face of death even as He has provided the path forward through the valley of its shadow.
I cry from the overwhelming, simultaneous weight of this world’s great brokenness and His blessed goodness. What grief our GOD must have over His creation, if this is the depth of grief I feel over even one small part of it — a small part of which I have had no authority or creative hand! And His goodness that never ceases. I think of James 1:17 — that I can trust the gift of every breath in my lungs because He does not change. His purpose is good and His will is perfect.
Mother, I think as I’ve walked this path longer, I have a deeper understanding of your faith. When you went through the mental illness and persevered. It didn’t always look like it on the outside. And to you, I’m sure it didn’t feel as though your faith was strong. But, you kept stepping. You did what you could. Not perfectly, but you didn’t give up. Until the end you didn’t give up. You kept fighting, and loving, and laughing, and singing praises to our GOD with that strong and steady voice that I miss so much. Oh, how I wish we could talk again. So many questions I’d ask. So many new thoughts to share.
But, we are in the same place: secure in His presence. Yours just looks different than mine at the moment. I’m praying His Spirit leads me in contentment as He completes His work in me — as He has evidently done in you (Philippians 1:6).
“These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”
Deuteronomy 6:6-7
“Impress them on your children.” This was the life-mission of my mother and father in my youth. Even today, though in my youth the role often fell to my mom out of proximity, my dad carries this mission in his heart towards us. There have been plenty of life conversations over the past few years when he has offered scripture as the solution to the heart-wrenching (to me anyway) problems I’ve faced in this process of growing into adulthood.
But today, I do want to revisit the oft-forgotten, always-remembered past. As a child, what did this look like? It looked like a mother and father who prioritized Sunday and Wednesday — and any other night of the week — church where they knew we would be under the teaching of our elders and trusted teachers. As soon as we were old enough to sit up for long periods (I’m not even going to qualify that with “sit still”), we joined them in “big church” (aka the congregational fellowship of worship and pastoral teaching for those not familiar with at least southern church vernacular). My mother led us in weekly scripture memory as part of our homeschooling curriculum (for which my father was often an avid test-listener–“Go tell Daddy what you learned today”). I remember in my childhood a couple of practices — practices that I, in later years, erroneously thought we’d grown out of, from which I see now the mistake of allowing busyness to distract us.
One was the insistence by our mother to “ask forgiveness” for the “specific wrong” for which the sibling must offer specific forgiveness in order for us to be reconciled to one another and allowed to “go play”. (In recent years, I’ve tried to be intentional in applying this to my recent apologies. Not being defensive or justifying my sin toward someone, but simply recognizing and asking their forgiveness for the particular wrong.)
The other practice was evening family prayer around the living room coffee table. There were different prompts at different times, but I do remember one of them being “what is one thing you’re thanking God for today?” This of course has influenced my understanding of prayer even from a child. We never were taught model prayers (except The LORD’s Prayer) — and I’m not saying that model prayers are wrong — but told to just talk to God specifically. I see now how even that shaped my understanding of God: that He is not some distant, unknowable deity to appease with proper prayers — that He is a holy and personal God, wanting to hear honest prayers in response to His personal presence in my daily life.
Are you seeing a pattern here? It’s one of modeling. Teaching through modeling. There were, I’m sure, plenty of questions from us and answers from them along the way. But — and parents, this may be an encouragement to you — I honestly don’t remember answers. I remember the examples set.
As I mentioned, there were a couple of structured practices when I was younger we stopped doing regularly after a move or two and we kids grew older. However, many of the essentials remained the same: church every week. Daily prayer. Discussions of life influenced by the principles (and often specific verses) of scripture. Talking about the Sunday sermon and lessons on the way to and throughout Sunday lunch.
When the LORD kept me from sports in high school (different story for a different day), my mother faithfully drove me to Bible study (until I finally had a license and car myself). That led to an even deeper hunger for His Word. (Of course, I discussed this a bit in my last letter.) From that hunger, came some of my fondest memories from that last year with my mother. Every week, coming home from school or work in the afternoons and telling my mom all about what I’d been studying and the lessons for which I was preparing — with her response of her own study of His word. And I worked through so many life-principles that she so patiently and graciously encouraged, especially when I felt a particular conviction from the LORD over habits or ideologies.
This passage in Deuteronomy 6 expresses the instruction Proverbs 22:6 reiterates: “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” My own mother quoted that in a letter she wrote to me my senior year as hers and my father’s mission statement toward my life. And she (literally) and he can rest assured that the LORD has done so through them. They have trained us in the love of the LORD and His word. Whether or not we depart when we are old is now between us and the LORD. But, they have faithfully done their part.
And, simply reflecting over this passage from Deuteronomy, I’m impressed once more by the instruction of the LORD in their example. How simple it was from a child’s eye. Sunday morning, we go to church. Sit down to eat, we thank the LORD. Going to sleep, we thank the LORD and ask His blessing over our concerns. Any opportunity to have fellowship with a believer, we fellowship. In regard to the Word of the LORD, we are to hunger for and love it, internalize its words and meaning, seek greater understanding for the sake of knowing God better. When we go about our business, treat others with kindness, gentleness, patience… lots of fruit.
Eight years from being under the same roof, and the many arguments of the world and trials of suffering have only brought a firmness of step in my walk with the LORD, because my parents impressed upon me, as Jesus repeats from Deuteronomy 6: the greatest commandment — “to love the LORD your God with all of your heart, with all of your soul, and with all of your mind” (Matthew 22).
Thank you. Thank you for modeling and teaching us a love for God’s word. Tonight I finished up a lesson plan for a Bible study I’m leading at my church. (We’re going through a study that provides an overview of Bible basics from the structure to themes to key movements in the story of salvation. ) This week we’ll be reviewing the structure of the Old and New Testaments by genre, talking about the impact of knowing how to read the different genres on our accurate understanding of scripture. It brought back memories of sitting in our various school rooms, reviewing that large laminated chart of the books of the Bible. Singing the songs to remember the order, you explaining the genres and how they work together, learning who wrote what (or who was suspected to have written a couple of ambiguous ones), and I remember that I had quite a few questions — some you answered, and some you told me we would have to find the answer later. (I distinctly remember asking about creation and the age of the earth.)
That, along with our scripture memory for AWANAS as part of our homeschooling curriculum each year, instilled within me a foundational knowledge of scripture — a springboard from which to learn, love, and wrestle with His word.
Above all else, this foundation created a fundamental trust in His word as the only true Truth. When uncertainty clouds my life, I can trust that the words I read in the Bible are secure — and my very life itself.
It’s an absolute joy to say that I know far more now than I did then, and I love it even more. And — perhaps even more so — a joy to teach and (by the Holy Spirit’s power) inspire the same in other women.
So, again, I thank you for the best gift and lesson you could have taught me in my first 18 years on this earth that has yielded much fruit in the last eight years. I pray that the next ten leads to even more of a harvest.
“I feel closer to Mom as I always have the spirit of her memory with me — not in some ghostly way, but it is within my own mind. And it’s particular to the whims of my own moods and fancy.”
~March 16th, 2024
Words from my journal today. Perhaps these words out of context are confusing, yet I think those who know the humor of grief will understand. No, I do not mean morbid jokes, rather the way that grief seems to enjoy sticking his hand into every struggle, whether or not it is directly related. In this case, my terrible case of disconnectedness.
Oh, don’t worry about me — these cases tend to pass with a daily dose of scripture and prayer with an exercise of sociality or two. But, grief loves to put in his two cents. To give his opinion on a matter that does not concern him.
Dealing with anxiety? Oh, yeah, don’t forget that everything in this life is temporal.
Dealing with anger? Be sure to remember that you’re justified in being bitter — you for sure didn’t have a say in this extreme dent in your future plans.
Got some depression keeping you down? Girl, have we got all the best deals on despair in “if only’s” and impossible wishes.
Loneliness? Say no more.
Grief — even with the hope of “here, not yet” that I have in Christ — loves to convince me that “here” is all I have.
In the past seven (nearly eight) years, grief and I have become better acquainted. We’ve come to understandings. Boundaries have been put in place with the Truth of His Word. Because, grief does have helpful and true commentary to add to my life. But, every now and then, grief’s half-truths can be quite convincing.
In this particular case of journaling, I reflected on the nature of my memory of Mom. Because in a full 18 years (exactly) spent with her, there’s much truth from which to remember. And that is what I must cling to. Even so, seven — nearly eight — years contain many new experiences with no “true” memories of Mom. My overactive imagination, as even she used to say, both comforts and confuses. For example: the truth is that during the year before her death, we were building the foundation for a solid friendship as I entered young womanhood. The imagining enters during the moments of fresh success or sorrow, or of complete boredom, when I imagine she would have been the first call. Would she? That, by God’s will, I am not to ever know.
My imagining has brought Mom closer in this way. In my imagining she always answers. She is always excited to hear from me. She’s always ready to listen to my many ramblings and get excited over what God is teaching me at every turn — and the frustrations over not always doing well in the discipline of obedience. She’s telling me all of the news of home and family, and perhaps even planning her next trip to visit me here in New York. She’s asking after my friends — the ones from home, from college, from the city. Yet, one thing I’m honestly unsure of is whether she would be that “Southern Mom” (all love and respect to those Southern Moms out there) who asks each call — or at least once a week — if there are any new men in my life. I don’t think she would — she never seemed all that interested if I ever was brave enough to mention a crush — but perhaps as I got older that would have changed.
(In that line of thought, there are things I simply don’t know how to imagine, because we never talked about it. There’s no precedent in true memory to inform the imagined. I try not to think about such instances too often though.)
Scripture says that “the Truth will set us free” and the truth — to not take that passage out of context — is Jesus. He, through His word, anchors my soul in the reality of “here, but not yet” as I wait on Him. He has used this deeper relationship with grief to better understand His heart. And the vast depths of His word. Not to mention His outward gaze upon His creation. I understand with far greater depth what Paul said in Romans 8, that “the whole of creation has been groaning” and that “we also groan inwardly as we wait eagerly”. Though, to be sure, the last part of that passage the LORD continues to work in me: “But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.”
With all hope, and ever-increasing patience by God’s grace, Hannah
I’ve reverted to my bookworm self this month. Perhaps too far as I need to catch up on a few life-things. But, there’s a certain joy and comfort that comes with the thrill of reading a book in just a couple of days or, in a few cases, only one!
I’ve largely been re-reading books, with the intent of not becoming too engaged with the story. Yeah, no, it’s not quite working out as I’d hoped. No, I’m not obsessing over the book for days — but this is because I finish it in two!
The latest book has brought me back to my childhood. Anne of Green Gables. I read the whole series over the span of about three-four weeks the summer after my eighth grade year — the summer I had physical therapy for my PCL injury. (I remember because my PT always commented on the fact that I had a different book each time I came in — and I came in at least twice a week.) Do you remember how I fell in love with the story, with Avonlea, with Anne? I used to think I was her — or that I would have been if I had the courage to speak my mind and musings. However, in re-reading, I’ve found a bit more likeness in Diana. The consolation lies in her own kindred-spiritedness with Anne. Diana just needed that dear, imaginative friend to pull her out of her own shell — she is first introduced to Anne with her nose stuck in a book, you know — and live life to the utmost. And, as I used to long for, Anne has the propensity, especially when young, to speak her mind frankly about everything. For Miss Never-Leaves-the-House-Without-Her-Filter here, the notion of speaking freely without over-analyzing every little nuance in conversation feels frighteningly alien.
Truly, Mom — I was in a pastoral care meeting this week and was given full permission to say things as I felt/thought them just to address the heart of the issues — and I felt mentally paralyzed. Then, after finally regaining a few words, I realized halfway through my next comment that the filter had slipped right back into place.
Don’t get me wrong, Anne certainly learns tact as she grows up and the ability to recognize when something might ought not to be said. So, I’m not over here idolizing the ability for utter frankness — but, it is interesting to now read this beloved character’s story once more, nearly twice the age I was at the first, and see more clearly where my notion of being kindred spirits with Anne came from being more like her best friend, than the girl herself. And came from the longing to be her.
In some ways, as I’ve grown, I believe I’ve achieved at least more of a confidence and freedom in my imaginative musings and tendencies. Especially where abstract thought is concerned. College opened a whole new world of appreciation for both those of similar interests, and the appreciation of those with different but complimentary interests. My friends who chose different paths would express their second-hand excitement for the world of literature and writing simply from my (for once) unfiltered outpouring of passion (arguably “venting”) for the intersection of language and the human heart.
I used to “use big words” as Anne did with flowery phrases. And I still do, as evidenced above, I’m sure. Why merely communicate when you can delight in doing so? Of course, there is a time and a place. And I’m grateful that a letter to my dear mother — to whom many of these verbal flourishes were directed aloud — could not be a more appropriate time and place.
The past week or so, I’ve had you on my heart and mind. Not just the essence of you, but memories of that week. To be truthful, some weeks — really at random, for what’s so significant about February in the distant past? — it seems the memories are pressed into every waking moment. And sometimes in dreams as well. “Free” time becomes a bit less free. Or so it feels. Because, truthfully, the real freedom is in facing the memories. Remembering. Crying when needed. Laughing when I can. Sharing them when friends ask.
Not sharing, trying so hard not to cry and only to laugh, or smile, or just “be okay” becomes the cage. I’m so grateful for psalms like 88 and 86 as two examples of grieving and needy prayers. Especially 88. It begins with “LORD, You are the GOD who saves me.” Immutable truth. Followed by an entire psalm of lament that finishes with the accusation of GOD, “You have taken from me friend and neighbor — darkness is my closest friend.” What an incredible encouragement our LORD provides in this. It is the foundational claim that GOD saves on which our sorrow is poured out and comforted. The truth of His character secures the reality of His gentle hand catching every tear.
There have been times when Psalm 88 is my psalm. Times I felt alone in my grief, in spite of the well-known fact that I am not the only one who grieves your absence. Times I still feel alone. But, we’re working on that. This “gotta be strong” complex goes back further than your death, to be honest. So, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise that even my best intentions at full honesty with family and friends have not been successful. Truth is, the real honesty I’ve lacked is with myself at times.
This past week, I’ve tried to be honest with myself. With the LORD. Even with friends, who can hold me both accountable to that honesty and speak the truth that I so struggle to believe: my emotions are not a burden to them. My friendship is not a burden to them. My presence is not a burden to them. (I told the friend who told me these truths that I’d “really try hard to believe that”.) And it’s getting easier. For one thing, the multiple friends the LORD has provided over the years who keep telling (and showing) me those truths. But also in simply ministering to others over the past seven-ish years — as I told that friend, I would never consider or want someone to believe their hurt, pain, anger included, are burdensome or wrong for simply feeling them. No, it’s what I do with those feelings that makes the difference. Do I exercise self-control with my anger? Recognize when I need to ask forgiveness for it? Do I let my hurt and pain paralyze me or motivate me to active sin against others? Do I sit in feelings when I need to take a stand?
I used to sit. I used to let my hurt and pain color my perceptions of others. Sometimes I still do. But, the LORD is restoring my sight. I’m not just seeing grey anymore. I’m seeing bright green, vibrant pink, fiery red, shades of yellow (yes, even the occasional drop of orange here or there), and I’m seeing blue. The deep teal sea blue of an unknown future just waiting for discovery, the clear sky blue of a future with no limits, the playful cerulean blue of a future filled with laughs and love, and the steel gray blue where my past collides with my future — the moments of sadness that give the vivacity of my future it’s bountiful color.
Right now, I’m seeing a bit of that overcast blue. I’m sad. I miss you. I miss the laughs and familiarity we shared. I miss the future I thought I’d have with you.
But I don’t miss the child I was. I do grieve the time wasted thinking I had to be strong. The friendships I missed out on. The intimacy I could have shared, the testimony I could have walked. But I don’t miss the ignorance. I grieve the truth I didn’t believe and the lies I did. The relationships broken on the back of those untruths.
For once, Mom, I’ll say something that may sound like an oxymoron considering what I’ve shared in the past: Thank the LORD that time doesn’t stop! I’m changing! I’m growing! He faithfully pursues and cleanses me. He brings me to obedience — to repentance and pressing on in righteousness.
He’s helped me to see color again. And we both know how I adore the color blue.
Life Without Mother 