For the past two years, this week of dates... from my Mom's birthday on the 8th to her post-transplant birthday on the 19th... has been a mental, emotional, and even spiritual struggle for me. And I'm going to be candid about it.
Three years ago, those 11 days were filled with so much hope. I was absolutely convinced that everything would be successful and we'd have extra years with her. I had so much faith.
They said the transplant was a success. They said it worked. And I couldn't stop praising God for it. So many answered prayers for so many people over my Mom's health.
After what felt like ages but was less than a few months after the bone marrow transplant, she was able to come back home [I had moved to Charleston, SC by then]. In August, after Nathan proposed to me, she excitedly agreed to be my matron of honor. She also knew there would be another little one joining the family--a baby girl. And she knew her name would be "Norah," but she didn't know her middle name yet. It's "Jane," just like hers.
We joked about my DNA taking over her body and wondered if that meant she would start liking the same songs I do--even if she didn't before. I kept asking her to listen to this one song on my modern 'Jazz' playlist periodically--just to check. I don't know that it would most accurately be categorized as jazz though... it was more like a contemporary-hipster-funk song with random repetitive lyrics like "put it in my pocket in my pocket in my back pocket"... about a 'Circle yes or no' letter. She would always laugh when it came on because it was such a ridiculous song. I kid you not, it was actually called "Back Pocket." I thought it was catchy. I told her that when she started liking that song, it meant my DNA finally won out completely and we would basically be clones of each other at that point. [Of course, that's not exactly how it works, but we had fun with our interpretation.]
We planned visits for "after the whole corona-thing blows over" and her immune system was back in tip-top shape. Her doctors were keeping an eye out for GVHD (Graft versus Host Disease) which can be fairly common in various severities after a transplant. It started presenting on her skin in patches. But they treated it. She never let on that it was anything besides a minor inconvenience. A hiccup. I didn't take it seriously. I had all of that faith, remember? So I spent our conversations reaching out to her as my confidant. So much time wasted complaining to her... and I know now that she never saw it that way... she saw it as me allowing her to be my mom--even as a mother myself... and she saw it as her daughter loving and needing her... as a chance to connect and be there for me and pray for me and offer advice and encouragement. She was so good at it, too. It was never wasted time for her.
But just a few weeks later, the complications got worse. She waited at the hospital one day... all the way in Philly from the Poconos... for hours... HOURS... all day/night in an uncomfortable chair... mixed in with the general population when she was meant to be isolated... just to get sent home instead of admitted--when they should have kept her there. I remember my Dad sending me a picture of her with a text to update us on what was going on. She was covered up as best as they could, sitting in a corner with a mask on--as far away from everyone else as possible. She looked so frail. But I had faith. I kept telling myself... telling everyone that it would be okay... "because it just HAS to be..."
A couple days later, she was back in Philadelphia; her condition had declined in the absence of medical care.
But I'm not writing this openly to talk about her physical condition... this is about my spiritual one.
After my Mom passed away, my faith changed. I started allowing myself to entertain thoughts of, "Well, look where your faith got you. Your Mom is gone. What good did any of those prayers do after all?" or "Why would you even offer to pray for anyone? They've already seen that the ones for your Mom didn't work..." and the longer and longer I let them linger, the stronger those thoughts became. I allowed myself to feel like a fraud--diminishing my own beliefs over it all. And it pushed me away from my Creator.
I told myself I wasn't mad at God. I told myself the usual placations and kindnesses, "It just wasn't meant to be..." "She's in a better place now and free from pain" [which she definitely is], "She's still watching over you..."
I know she's with Jesus. I know she's free from pain and sadness. And while I don't believe she turned into an angel (Psalm 8:5, 1 Corinthians 6:3) or interferes with earthly things, I believe she already sees the whole picture (unlike us), knows about her littlest grandchildren, and knows that even in the midst of life’s heartaches and trials, God is still working behind the scenes just like He did for her, so there truly are no tears in Heaven (Revelation 21:4).
But still, I questioned my own faith. My own prayers. Those thoughts really can run you for a loop if you're not careful about forcing the bad ones out (Philippians 4:8).
Something stopped me in my tracks this morning though. I heard a song that was popular when I was in middle school and became a favorite to sing together with the track while we waited at the bus stop before school. "God of Wonders" ... My mom would always lift her hands--with the car in park, or do that quirky sort of signature recoil clap motion we'd poke fun at her for (if you ask me in person, I'll show you what it looked like)--no matter who was around. I'd sing and play the egg shaker for our audience of One.
She claimed she wasn't a musician and that she had zero musical talent (except for the triangle she would ring for dinnertime every so often if we were playing outside), but my Mom lived out her worship in so many other ways. I understand it now. She kept an atmosphere of praise in our home with worship music on cassette--or later on CD--playing during the waking hours of the day.
And even though my Dad was the one directly on the worship team (my favorite drummer ever), my mom was there too, behind the scenes, back in the overhead-projector days...making sure the printed lyric transparencies shifted, swapped, and repeated when necessary in order for the congregation to follow along seamlessly without any fumbles or distractions. All while doing that quirky clap motion. I have no doubt that her worship was a sweet aroma to the Lord.
And unlike the funky-jazz-like song about jean pockets, we both loved "God of Wonders". Her favorite was when Mac Powell would sing. Mine, too. We'd listen on repeat until the bus's headlights came into view through the trees and I had to reluctantly go to school.
I heard a version of this song today that I'd never heard before. But Mac Powell was still singing and the pieces all just seemed to click into place. My heart was ready to listen again with a fresh perspective.
Halfway through the song, I realized that there's a difference between faith and denial, even though it's easy for the two to get mixed up sometimes:
Denial says, "If I don't want something to happen, it can't."
Faith says, "I know bad things happen. I know the enemy attacks. I know the threats are real, but I know that my God is bigger than anything and everything we come up against and His ways are higher than ours" (Isaiah 55:8-9).
So even though I thought I was--I wasn't operating entirely in faith back then. And through my denial, I was minimizing the situation--therefore, minimizing God's greatness and carving my own idols in the process.
I wasn't trusting Him. I was trusting myself, thinking that if I just manifested enough positivity... if I just wanted it badly enough not to be real, it would happen the way I planned.
Pastor Trent said something yesterday at church that struck more than just a few chords. He said, "You'll only worship what you're in awe of."
I had to write it down. Because it's true.
I stopped being in awe of God's wonders because I started looking inward instead of up. (Proverbs 9: 8-10)
"You'll only worship what you're in awe of."
Then, Lord, let me forever stand in the amazement of You.
Forever a work in progress,
Elisha
---
Lord of all creation
Of water, earth, and sky
The heavens are Your tabernacle
Glory to the Lord on High
God of wonders beyond our galaxy
You are holy, holy
The universe declares Your majesty
You are holy, holy
Lord of heaven and earth
Lord of heaven and earth
Early in the morning
I will celebrate the light
And as I stumble through the darkness
I will call Your name by night
God of wonders beyond our galaxy
You are holy, holy
The universe declares Your majesty
You are holy, holy
Lord of heaven and earth
Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Hallelujah to the Lord of heaven and earth
Precious Lord, reveal Your heart to me
Father, holy, holy
You are holy, holy
Dear Mom,
It’s been a while since I’ve had so much to say to ‘you’ openly. Some might take it as a sign that I started to close off… to compartmentalize my grief. Others might assume it means I’ve reached a transition from sorrow to acceptance. The reality is that I haven’t started missing or thinking of you any less; I’ve just been talking to God more. Directly. We’ve been hashing it out.
He showed me that even though I kept saying I understood and wasn’t mad at Him for ‘taking you away’… it was all just words; I didn’t actually understand, and I was actually furious. First at God, then at me, then at God, then at God AND me… marinating in the guilt that maybe if I were a ‘more Christiany Christian’ at the time (whatever that means) … maybe if my prayers held more weight… if I pleaded more… if I were louder… then maybe you’d still be here. You’re not though. Nothing is changing that. And that was silly of me to think, but I’m also human.
Remember when I was a little girl and I used to take turns in the pages of my diary writing, “Dear God,” then the next one would start off with, “Dear Jesus,” cycling through the trinity ‘so no one would feel left out’? I did that more recently with my frustration too… except I didn’t have the endearing nature of childhood naivety to obscure my intent. It was adult immaturity… a pachyderm ‘hiding’ behind a bonsai. I was bitter towards Them ‘all’. Shaken, but not stirred.
I stopped writing for a while. Internal suffocation. I don’t know if I did it as a subconscious effort to ‘punish’ myself… to sever my passion, my habitual outlet, to ‘punish’ God by keeping it all in (which is futile, really, because none of our thoughts or actions are hidden: Psalm 139), or because I just felt like none of it really mattered anymore… the same emotions cycled on repeat… who would want to relive it all in words, too?
I need to start writing again. But not about the same things as before—not the cataclysmic spectrum of past relationships, or the woes of a broken heart: passive-aggressive verbal arson. I see now that it was all just self-gratifying hollow justification for plank-eyed indignation—no matter how eloquently penned. I’m not going to live there anymore. The pain. The sorrow. It shook me without harvest.
I have a new purpose—or perhaps, I’m finally discovering one that was there all along. It wasn’t writer’s block… it was an intentional shift of focus—I was looking down when what I really needed was to be reaching up.
Yesterday, I heard Pastor Art Thomas say something that resonated quite loudly: “There’s life wherever the rivers flow.” And it brought to mind the very last song I ever sang at your bedside:
All who are thirsty, all who are weak
Come to the fountainDip your heart in the streams of life
Let the pain and the sorrow be washed away
In the waves of His mercy
As deep cries out to deep
We sing, come, Lord Jesus, come
Holy Spirit, come.
As I sing it again now, I realize that I was the one who was thirsty. I was the one who was weak. I was the one whose heart needed new life… a new purpose… all I needed to do was to let go of all the wrong things and fully embrace the right One.
You already figured it out.
I miss you, Mom… but we’re in good hands. And so are you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
Dear Mom,
I'm getting baptized tonight at the beach. I never really told anyone, but it's always been a special dream of mine... to get baptized in the ocean... it's happening!
I remember being baptized when I was 8... and although I meant it with my whole heart then, nervously pinching my nose in the pool-- anticipating Pastor Angelo tipping me back into the water... so much has happened since that day in my imperfect-but-perpetually-forgiven life...my skittish mind... my changeable heart... and while God has been with me every moment since... every step of the way... even the times I've strayed and put my trust in myself instead of Him, or in my own thoughts... my own understanding... my own strength... He's held onto me and never let me go... I need to show Him that I'm holding on this time too... all in. ♡
I know you'll be there. Thank you for teaching me how to talk to Jesus when I was a little girl. Both you and Dad. We have a lot to catch up on, but until then...
I still miss you so much, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
The morning started off normal enough. Fed the baby, helped Aria get ready for school and to the bus on time, strapped Norah into her car seat, made sure Machaela didn't forget anything, and started the car.
Your Van Morrison CD had been playing for a while, so I switched albums to Lauren Daigle ... the one you introduced me to back in 2019 when I was struggling in the aftermath of life-altering chaos. I pressed shuffle.
"Still Rolling Stones" started playing as Machaela buckled her seat belt and made sure she had her mask. She said that she thought it would be a great song to sing for the next talent show at school. I asked her if she knew what "You're still rolling stones" meant... so we discussed lyrics as we waited for the light to turn green at the intersection. By then, the song "Rescue" came on:
I hear you whisper underneath your breath
I hear your SOS, your SOS"The light turned green and my foot pressed down on the gas pedal.
I will send out an army to find you
In the middle of the darkest night
Except, there was a car coming from the other way that should've been slowing down; it wasn't. It was running the perpendicular red light while I was driving through the green one. The car stopped just in time. I don't know how it was able to do that as fast as it was charging through the intersection, but it did.
"It's true, I will rescue you" ... the song kept playing.
And I was reminded exactly how it happened.
When I pulled back into the driveway, I parked the car and tears started streaming down my face. I heard a sweet voice singing, "Look Up Child"... and when I did... I saw you there. I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
I didn't make Easter baskets this year. I didn't want to. The girls already have so much--so many lovely things... we've truly all been blessed in so many ways.
Aria even said to tell the Easter Bunny that he can skip over our house so that he has extra to share with other kids who might need the surprises more. You'd have been proud. I was.
She added that she didn't think Norah Jane would mind either since she's "too little to eat candy and doesn't have any teeth yet".
Speaking of the baby, I know there have been a lot of changes since she was born--and although the older two understand the need to share their time with me, I still want to make sure they know that their importance doesn't diminish... their place in my life isn't any less prominent because there's one more to share my triply-expanded heart with.
I remember the little notes you'd leave for Jenn, Tris, and I with "token gifts" as you'd call them... and how you always seemed to know how to make a single item mean so much more than any room filled with presents ever could. A musical snow globe... a stuffed giraffe plush that could fit into the palm of my hand... a hand-written letter, or a simple candy cane ornament.
It was your heart... the love woven into every aspect of you being our Mom.
I thought about it, but I didn't make any Easter baskets this year. Instead, I purchased 2 empty books with delicately decorated pages and penned a letter in each--hopefully the first of many.
The girls are growing up so fast and I never want to miss out on our time together... you've taught me how precious it truly is... and how fleeting.
I still cherish our letters to each other, me and you... except now, tears accompany the smiles as I read.I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
It's almost been 4 months since you left and although I haven't been writing as much, I haven't been thinking about you any less... and your absence hasn't been hurting any less either. I think it actually aches more the closer it gets to the baby being here... because you're not. And you were so excited about her making her debut on/around your birthday, too. I hope she does... wouldn't that be something?
You already know what she looks like, don't you? What color her hair will be... her eyes... the curve of her smile... will she be happy? I worry that all of the sadness I've felt with her growing inside of me... all of the missing you... somehow makes her sad too... like she'll be less content because of my mourning or that my grief passes through to her just like the nutrients from the foods that I eat. I don't want to give her anything but joy.
I know it sounds silly, but you always understood my thoughts when no one else could make any sense of them. I miss that. So many of our family members and friends have been reaching out with kindness, love, and encouragement the past months... they're so wonderful and I feel like I must be so ungrateful sometimes because despite everyone's best efforts, there's still that heartbreaking ache in my life without you. It's always there. I just want my Mom back.
I still try to call you. I've still even gone to message you one time when Dad was signed into your account to change your cover photo for you. It didn't even occur to me that it wasn't you... as if my mind hadn't processed the full extent of loss yet, or that my heart's acknowledgment reverted back to temporary subconscious denial somehow.
I know it's comforting for him to see your memories. He needs that. But it still hasn't sunk in... the past tense of it all. The realization that all of the memories that I have of you are all of the ones I will ever have. I wish we made more. I went to change my ringtone today... to a calmer one... and as I was going down the list, the tracks automatically start playing a preview of the clip... Jordan Smith's version of "Chandelier" from The Voice started chiming out and I absolutely broke down remembering the time we listened to that song on repeat for probably about three days or so, driving Dad a little bit crazy... but it was our thing.
I’m gonna swing from the chandelier From the chandelier I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist Like it doesn’t exist I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night Feel my tears as they dry I’m gonna swing from the chandelier From the chandelier But I’m holding on for dear life Won’t look down, won’t open my eyes Keep my glass full until morning light ‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight Help me, I’m holding on for dear life Won’t look down, won’t open my eyes Keep my glass full until morning light ‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight, on for tonight
We joked about how silly it would look to have people swinging from chandeliers and added it to our bucket lists... to swing from chandeliers while singing "Chandelier"... so I turned it into a ringtone for you, but it was eventually replaced by "The Goldbergs" theme song... our show.
The girls walked into the room as I sat there next to the pile of clean laundry I meant to fold, sobbing over the song playing... they knew I was crying because I miss you... they miss you too... so much.
"It's okay, Mom... we know you miss her. We miss Nonnie too."
I know that you felt bad about the past year... not feeling well enough to do as much as you wanted to with them, or take them to as many places as you'd have liked... I know you worried about the way they'd remember their time with you... but you shouldn't have.
Those girls adore you and remember so many wonderful thoughts, jokes, snuggles, and lessons you shared with them. We really were so blessed to have you in our lives... I just ache for the impossibility of more time with you on this side of forever.
I miss you, Mom. We all do.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
I broke down last night when Trissy surprised me with a few special gifts you had been working on together specifically for the night before our wedding... including another Montgomery Moose... like the one you sent with me to school in first grade because you couldn't be there and I was nervous... like the very same one we tucked into your casket with you less than two months ago so you wouldn't be scared about being alone.
For as wonderful as today is... and for as happy as I am... it also still hurts.
I'll tell you more about everything later... 4 o'clock waits for no one.
I bet you'll be beautiful, too. I can't wait.
I miss you, Mom.
We all do. So much.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Narration. [sorry about the baby farts in the background…*spoiler alert*]
Dear Mom,
I tried to alter my perspective a bit this weekend. I've been sad so often... and I still am... but instead of dwelling on all of the moments in life we are forced to experience WITHOUT you, I've been trying to focus on all of the subtleties and joys in life I'm able to notice and appreciate BECAUSE of you. Time with family... silly jokes with the girls... bonding with my sisters over your favorite recipes... they're not to be overlooked.
On Friday night, we went to a drive-in movie with friends... even sang in the car with the windows rolled down on the way there... like we used to before. When I packed the car to get ready, I tried to think ahead and bring enough blankets, pillows, and snacks for everyone... plus a few extra sweatshirts... just like you would've. "Be prepared for everything," right? It had me thinking about how you made motherhood look effortless.
When Aria wanted to snuggle instead of watch parts of the movie (even though I had never seen it before), I remembered your selflessness... always putting your children first... even in the little things.
On Saturday, we started gutting our pumpkins to prepare them for being carved (the girls were grossed out by the sliminess at first... it was amusing) and accepted an invite to our friends' house for a BBQ.
As the girls were eating baked beans that night, they started singing the "Beanie Weenies" song that you taught them... even though there weren't any hot dogs. They thought of you. Your granddaughters miss you a lot too.
I also started knitting Norah's blanket--or trying to. I know I could just buy her one... that it would take much less time that way, but the true gift is in the sentiment. The first baby blanket I ever made was when I was pregnant with Machaela, the second, with Aria, and now this one, for Norah Jane... each using different materials and techniques to symbolize the uniqueness of each child.
You taught me fairness. You taught me that love and effort is more precious than superficiality. You taught me that life is beautiful in all its many forms.
Yesterday, we went to church together. We were a few minutes late, but for the first time, I didn't mind. Nathan surprised me with being able to sleep in and instructed the girls not to wake me up until after he finished making us all a nice hearty breakfast. We sat down to eat together and talk for a while. It didn't even bother me this time that we were a little late for church... I was surrounded by God's love in our home.
Afterwards, we came back to finish our pumpkins. Nate taught Aria how to use an electric leaf blower and she helped him with the yard... even raking a few leaf piles to run through and jump in. Machaela helped gather some pecans from under the trees and grumbled at the squirrels for wasting food [They'd chew holes through the tops of the shells and toss them aside]. I loved hearing them laugh and giggle.
It was sunny and beautiful. At one point, Nathan found a lovely shell by the garden and showed it to the girls... but there was a catch... it wasn't empty! They rinsed it off to discover the biggest garden snail any of us had ever seen! You'd have loved their fascination with their newfound creature friend. They named him "Gary" and he's going to stay with us for a while. You'd approve.
We hear the wind chimes a lot when the breezes trickle through... the girls say, "Hi Nonnie! We love you too!" every time. Sometimes Aria even chimes them back. It's a comfort. You loved the outdoors more than anywhere else. So many things remind me of you. Even in my children... even sometimes in myself, too. More comfort.
I'm learning that perspective relies heavily on our choice of preposition. Some days, I'm sure I will still feel like we're without you... but even on the loneliest of days, your presence, love, and memory is still within us and around us in all of the little things we do.
This week, we'll be following your home roasted pumpkin seed recipe.
I miss you, Mom. We all do.
Love always,
"Pookie"
[P.S.- I shared your recipe for my friends to try too. I know you wouldn't mind... you loved being able to help others.] ♡
Norah Jane at 13 weeks... back at the beginning of September, before we knew her name.
I took this video of my ultrasound because my family wasn't allowed in with me.
I wanted to be able to show the girls their baby sibling, our parents their new grandbaby, etc. and of course Daddy needed to see his little one too. ♡
I sent this video to my Mom right after I showed it to Nate and the girls... it was the last one she saw of the baby... then I updated her when the lab results came back saying she's a girl (we didn't know at the time of this ultrasound). My Mom was overjoyed to be able to see her grandbaby in motion... "so active!", "I never got to see you girls quite like this when I was pregnant with you."
It baffled us both that there are still people in the world who could witness such a miracle of life and see anything but. Life is precious.
So while I'm heartbroken that my Mom isn't here for the rest of this journey (and goodness how it aches), I am thankful that she got to 'meet' our blessing in her own way and that little Norah was able to bring extra joy and love to her life... even while still in the womb.
I'm sharing this special moment because it's one of those little happy thoughts I cling to when discouragement tries to keep me focused on my Mom's absence instead of all the ways she was present. ♡ And still is... just a little differently. Keep reminding me, please.
Dear Mom,
They say that you have some of the most terrifyingly bizarre dreams when you're pregnant. I remember that with Machaela, I couldn't even watch scary movie previews or the dreams were unbelievably horrifying. I learned my lesson by the time Aria was being formed...(incubated?) ... or so I thought. Last night, we watched "The Twilight Zone"... you read that correctly... I must've jolted straight up from my sleep about three or four times... such terrible nightmares... from watching "The Twilight Zone". By the fifth time, I was almost used to it... but that didn't make it any better. Our minds can be such intricate and easily impressionable things.
The last nightmare I had was about you being in trouble. Someone was chasing you and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I woke up in a cold sweat, tears in my eyes... and for a split second, I groggily rationalized that it was just a bad dream and I'd call you in the morning so we could have a cup of tea and laugh about my silliness together. I stepped out of bed to check on the girls, doors, and windows (like I usually do whenever I wake up in the middle of the night) and that's when it hit me. While the nightmare wasn't real, the present reality is far worse.
I couldn't go back to sleep.
I keep wanting to call you for advice. For reassurance. To ask about recipes. To share updates with you about the girls and the baby. And I realize I can't. I realized I'm never going to hear your ringtone again... The Goldberg's theme song. Our show. We still didn't watch the last season together.
I don't think I can ever get used to this. It hurts so much.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
The theme song from our favorite show to watch together…and the song I turned into her ringtone.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 