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.] ♡
Dear Mom,
I think you'd be smirking at my facetious antics. The girls, Nate, and I have been spending time the past couple days carving pumpkins together.
Aria's has flowers, hearts, and a peace sign, Machaela carved a chinchilla into hers, and Nathan said his is going to be Mario.
I had no idea what design to cut into my pumpkin canvas. Nate suggested "Peach" to go with his Mario Bros theme. The girls agreed. I didn't have any better ideas of my own, so I obliged.
I worked really hard on it and was honestly kind of impressed with the outcome. Smooth lines, decent shapes... it was easily the best one I'd ever carved... but when I showed them the finished result, they didn't seem as thrilled with my efforts as I was. They rolled their eyes and said it looks nothing like her. 😆
I hereby present to you, "Princess Peach" (and your favorite fruit). I still think it's my best pumpkin masterpiece to date, regardless.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
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.
Dear Mom,
You know how I am. Not everything I write is flowery or tickled with flecks of sunshine. Sometimes it can be downright hurtful to digest. But that doesn’t make the words any less significant. When it comes to healing, subduing thorns tends to be more constructive than embracing petals.
I needed some time after the last letter. It was packed with confrontation of human frailties that stung to admit. I had to reevaluate the “why". Why am I writing these letters… why am I sharing them publicly if you don’t even need to read them anymore to know how I feel? I didn’t want to be sharing for the wrong reasons.
But writing is the way I process everything going on around and within me. Some people can process emotions by talking them out. Others by simply thinking them over. My thought processes are somehow tethered to the tangible byproduct of written language. To this day, I’m unsure as to whether the clarity of understanding comes more so from the actual process of documentation, or from hindsight analysis of penned introspection. Perhaps a bit of both.
I know you don’t log into social media anymore to read my letters or posts. You can’t. But you also don’t need to. So why share them? It’s not for you… you aren’t in need of anything anymore. You’re being well taken care of by the One who made you … who made us all. No pain. No suffering. No tears. So why? For me? If that were the case, they wouldn’t need to be shared at all—let alone with the world, or at least whoever might stumble upon them from time to time. So why? A cry for attention? I don’t believe so. You know how I squirm and fidget when I know eyes or ears are on me.
While some can speak their emotions to offer a voice to their psyche and others can organize themselves through other outlets, such as art, music, or writing… there are still those who have trouble untangling themselves at all… or even who simply haven’t discovered their how. I think that my hope is that by sharing the deepest struggles and vulnerabilities of my heart and of my mind, it might help others find pieces of themselves along the way, too. No one likes feeling alone. And see… I didn’t even realize the answer to my own questions until I spelled them out for myself with words… what a strange little idiosyncrasy to have. I don’t even understand myself until I read my own scribbles.
This letter won’t be any easier. I noticed I’m still wearing the orange “VISITOR" bracelet from the night of September 24th. The one that had to be renewed every day just to pass through security. I couldn’t tell you how many times it’s been through the shower, washed along with my hands, or gotten inadvertently soapy from the dish sponge. But it’s still there… worn and faded, with “71384” printed on the side like a reg number for an inmate. When it caught my eye earlier, I realized I’m still there too—even though you're not… at the hospital, chained to those moments by your bedside… reliving the loop because I can’t seem to let go even though you already have. Who am I visiting now? Guilt? Hypotheticals? Irreversible outcomes? I need to write it out. All of it… before a different type of sentence tries to consume me. But first, I need to gather my thoughts.
I miss you.
Love always,
“Pookie"
My Mom loves the Carpenters. I always think of us listening to this song whenever it’s rainy… or a Monday… and especially when it’s both.
Dear Mom,
Dad called me today. He said that he’d been on the phone with one of your specialists. Dr. Lisa. She stressed that there was nothing any of us could’ve done differently. He wanted to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault that you’re gone. As he’s tried to do many times. My sisters have, too. I hear the words and I understand what they mean. “It wasn’t your fault. There wasn’t a thing you could’ve done or been differently to prevent her death.” I tell myself too. But it’s not that easy, is it? Denial can function in reverse. I hear the words and sentiments… but I’m stuck inside my own head. It gets dark in there sometimes. “She’s gone from us because you failed.”
I know it’s not what you want to hear. I know it’s not what you want for me. I know that you would be taking my hand right now—tears in your own eyes—pleading for me not to ever think this way for even a moment. But I also know that you understand.
I can’t pass a mirror without noticing. The scars haven’t faded completely from the catheter that was installed with hopes of collecting pieces of me that would save you. Even when the wounds vanish, I’ll still know. Whenever my fingertips glide across my neckline to adjust a clasp or chain, they graze the two shallow divots near my right collar bone where hope once lived. Evidence of effort, marks of love, traces of failure. Don’t cry, Mom…
The last time I reached to hug you before your eyes closed was the night the hospital kicked visitors out because the pandemic reached the city, and everyone was in a panic. The transplant was only halfway through—my part wasn’t even over yet.
The last video I have of us together captured a melancholy, but hopeful “goodbye” … forcing back tears trying to be strong for you while you forced back tears to be strong for us. I didn’t know it was the last time our voices would occupy the same space. “Don’t worry—I’ll see you again soon, Mom. I love you.”
The last time you saw me, I was wearing a mask, but not even a mask could hide the pain in my eyes… not from you. Months later and just a few rooms from the left, I saw you for the last time—but you couldn’t see me. You wouldn’t open your eyes again. “It wasn’t meant to be.” We didn’t know.
I should have ripped the mask from my face back in March and held you tighter. I should have smiled another memory for you, so the room didn’t feel as lonely, cold, and empty without us there. I should have refused to leave your side… I should have said or done more of something—anything… but I didn’t. Instead, I left. Just like they told us to do. I didn’t know any better… none of us did. I know people will say none of it would have made a difference. They want to be reassuring. “You did all that you could.” And they’re probably right. I hear the words—trust me, I hear them. And I know they should compute. But grief doesn’t always make sense. In fact, it rarely ever does. But I’m new at this.
Everyone says it’s a process, but it feels more like a Möbius strip… I can’t pass a mirror without being reminded… without it all replaying in my mind… the strip tightening into a noose. “Focus on the good memories… she will always be in your heart.” I see the words. I identify the sentiment. They want to reassure, and I want to believe. I know you’re in a better place now, Mom, but I’ve found myself in a worse one without you… it gets dark in there sometimes.
I forever miss you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
A photo still of the last video I have of my Mom and me together.
This. Song. Will Always. Always. Make me cry. I remember my Mom talking about it and verbally imagining if that’s what it’s like… and now she knows. And I miss her.
Dear Mom,
She can hear me now. I can feel her moving around throughout the day like a reassuring hug as if to say, "I'm here, too."
Life.
Hers.
Not even born yet, but still very much alive.
We both stayed by your bedside for those final hours on this side of eternity.
Room 1414.
I wonder if she heard the resonance of the songs we sang to you.
I wonder if you heard me whisper her name in your ear. "Norah Jane".
Norah ... "full of light and wisdom". Brightness in the middle of darkness. And she is.
Jane means "God is merciful and gracious". And He is... even when the reasoning surpasses my own understanding. But to me, "Jane" also represents the strongest most selfless woman I've ever known. You.
I can't help but to feel the gravity.
She isn't born yet but was still by your side when you were called away. I wonder if she felt my heart sink as I watched yours beat its last. Did she hear the echoes of mourning as the doctor came into the room to announce your time of death? Could she sense the angels rejoicing at your Heavenly birth?
Light in the presence of darkness.
I know that you loved her already, but your absence from the rest of this journey still aches.
We miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
One of my Mom’s favorite songs to sing on a sunny day. George was always her favorite Beatle.
Dear Mom,
I drank tea from your mug today. Well… my mug. But I still consider it yours.
I woke up a bit early this morning—with just enough time to try to clear my head before it was time to wake the girls and get them ready for the day. I tried to make tea the way you always did. “Nonnie Tea” (coined lovingly as such by Aria around 2017… before that, it was always just “hot tea the way Mom always makes it”)…but I didn’t have any Lipton tea bags, so I tried to improvise with a generic sort. It didn’t taste the same… not even from your mug… well, my mug… but I still consider it yours.
You know the one. The blatantly fraternal replacement for my favorite mug. The teddy bear one that you gave me. It was matte stone-fired and rustic looking with three thick bands of subtle earthy gradient… smooth to the touch—as if worn and weathered, not from glaze. I would have thought that it was made by an ancient tribe had it not been for the circular applique blended into the surface with a plush teddy bear drawn on top. Quaint. Classic. Sturdy. I loved it.
You let me take to school when I was in 6th grade… the first year Jenn was out of the house and I felt like I didn’t have my biggest sister in my life much anymore. In English class, we were allowed to keep a mug in the cabinet for when we would have hot chocolate days.
That was also the year that I wore your old hand-knit (or at least it appeared as such) gaudy sweater to school every day. I didn’t care about my reputation. That year brought a heavy weight of transition—switching churches, my oldest sister leaving home, you and Dad working all of those extra hours with me ‘stuck’ at home with Tris—who wasn’t exactly the nicest to me at the time (overstatement). [Thankfully, we usually get along much better now.] It was just a lot. When you’re a kid, you don’t really understand the “why” behind the decisions your parents make. I didn’t understand then. I do now, though.
Fast-forward a bunch of years… I heard you in the kitchen washing dishes… presumably dancing around to Van Morrison’s “Whenever God Shines His Light” … or another one of your favorites… when mid-chorus, there was a shatter. And perhaps an uttered expletive… or a sound-alike expletive—it was anyone’s guess, but only you know. To my horror, my favorite mug… the teddy bear one… the one you said looked like “Pookie Bear” from Garfield (and therefore, reminded you of me) … there it lie in a scattered heap of barely-recognizable shards. The mug that got me through the complexities of 6th grade and all subsequent heartbreak up until that point. Unrepairable.
It’s strange how moments that seemed vibrantly pinnacle back then tend to pale over the years… as others that might have seemed trivial step into the foreground. Ages ago, it was about the mug. Now, it’s about the look of remorse on your face after something so special to me was broken. I still remember it.
You offered one of your favorite cups to me as a replacement. That was always your way though… giving the best of yourself to try to heal the brokenness in the lives of those you love.
So, I drank tea from your mug today… and although it didn’t taste the same, I still felt your warmth and the way you always sacrificed the best of yourself to mend the brokenness in us.
I miss you terribly.
Love always,
“Pookie”
My Mom’s favorite song to dance and sing to while she was washing the dishes. This is the song from the memory.
Dear Mom,
This morning started off rough. I was feeling discouraged about trying to get the girls up, dressed, fed, and ready for their classes for the day. You know how Aria isn’t a morning person at all… and Machaela sometimes needs to be reminded repeatedly before remembering the basics… like brushing her hair out of its perpetual Merida-look… and lately I feel like I’ve been forgetting everything…
When Nate went to hug me before leaving for work, he saw the frown I was trying to hide and wanted to cheer me up… so he pouted and lightly pinched my cheeks (the ones on my face, mind you… I already know what you were going to say if I didn’t specify), saying, “Don’t be sad, Pookie Pie… it’ll be okay” and then pulled me in for a hug.
Well, somewhere between “Pookie Pie…” and the hug, I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. I could hear your voice in my head singing the lullaby you made up for me when I was a baby and have since adapted for each grandchild. “Pookie pie lullaby, little one don’t you cry…"
I know I’m 32 now, but I’d still have given anything in those moments to have been rocked back and forth to your voice singing to me again. And then, as if that wasn’t enough … my mind connected that thought to knowing that you won’t be able to sing our lullaby to Norah… or swaddle her… or rock her to sleep… and even as I’m writing this, the tears are coming back. I can’t even imagine one of my children not getting the chance to know you the way the rest of us do.
Sometimes I’m okay. Today hasn’t really been one of those sometimeses though. I’m keeping it together well enough though. Functioning. Autopilot override when necessary. If it weren’t for the girls mentioning about being hungry (like 527,391 times a day… you know how kids are), I might forget to eat.
Someone asked me today how I feel. I replied, “bland.”
I didn’t even think about it until after I hit send, but it’s about as accurate of a word as any.
Bland…
That’s not to say that I don’t have so many things to be thankful for. That’s not to say that I don’t have anything to look forward to or any joys in life anymore. I do. I have so many wonderful people in my life and so much to look forward to… but for now it all just feels bland without you.
I wanted to call you today… because you’re the one I’d always call when I was sad… but not being able to call you anymore to hear your voice is the reason why I’m sad… I still haven’t listened to that twelve second voicemail you left on August 22nd. I don’t think I’m ready to yet. I feel like I have to ration my thoughts about you, so I don’t fall apart.
Writing to you helps. I think. I don’t know how I’d be if I didn’t write it out though. You always encouraged me to write my heart no matter what anyone else said or thought about it. So, I will. Sharing helps.
I feel bad for not being ready to really talk about it too much in individual conversation with people though. Everyone has been so encouraging and all I can seem to muster up in response are ‘care’ emojis. I’ve started trying to type out how much the outpouring of love means to me… how my heart warms just to read the comments, advice, and personal stories… but it just sounds so robotic of me to say even though I mean it genuinely. So, I deleted them… my replies. I think that people understand. I don’t know what to say. I just don’t have the words right now. And I think that’s okay. I’ll get there.
I’m fairly certain it was Kathleen Hathaway Mitchel who mentioned something profound in her book, “Treasures in Tragedy” about grief not being linear… I wish I could remember the exact quote… whatever it was, I understand it now.
I think I’ll make spaghetti for dinner. I should write it on a post-it note so I don’t forget.
I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
“Pookie”
My Mom’s favorite song that was featured on her favorite movie, “Somewhere in Time”
Dear Mom,
It’s Sunday. I have a newfound appreciation for the expert way you’d wrangle Jenn, Tris, and I together to help us get ready—and yourself—to leave the house early enough for us to get to church on time… Whenever we’re the first ones ready, I hear you saying, “All your father has to do is get himself ready and he’s STILL the last one out!” I think I might have even said something similar to the girls today too… but about Nate. I thought of you.
I wanted to go to church today, but at the same time, I had a feeling that Pastor Trent or the worship team, or SOMEONE would say something that would just set off the tears I’d been holding back. You know how I hate crying around people. I almost cried during praise and worship when we sang, “We’re gonna’ see a victory! We’re gonna’ see a victory! For the battle belongs to the Lord!...”
The last time we sang that song was two weeks ago, but it meant something different to me then. Two weeks ago, I was praying that song in my heart, sobbing at the altar for your healing. Last Sunday, Dad, Jenn, Tris, and I were at the funeral home making plans for your burial.
On the surface, this Sunday didn’t feel like we’d seen much of a victory—at least not in the way I prayed for. I felt bad for even thinking that. I almost wrote out a prayer request not to be mad at God for not answering my prayers the way I believed He would.
And then, the musicians started playing a song Machaela introduced me to months ago that she heard in youth group that really spoke to me. Do you remember “Way Maker”? I had you listen to it before. And played it for you in the hospital. And again, at your funeral service. I had never heard the worship team play it before during Sunday service, but they did today.
Part of it goes like this:
Way maker, miracle worker, promise keeper Light in the darkness My God, that is who You are Even when I don’t see it, You’re working Even when I don’t feel it, You’re working You never stop, You never stop working You never stop, You never stop working
“Way Maker” – Leeland
I don’t know why God chose not to work a miracle in your healing here on Earth. I know that I’ve felt betrayed—like He broke His promise… and I still struggle with that emotion sometimes and have to remind myself that even though I don’t always see or feel it, He’s working in our lives.
They played the song again at the end of service too… I really needed to hear it again. And this time, as I sang with my eyes closed, trying to hold back tears… I felt such a warm, compassionate hug. I didn’t even have to open my eyes to know which of my church sisters it was. And I’m telling you, Mom, that if nothing else, I needed to be there today for that hug. And that song. And for Pastor Trent to talk about the importance of praise—even when you feel like you’re stuck in a rut, or in a pit… surrounded by darkness. In the midst of it all, sing praise.
I’ve been noticing a lot of things about myself lately that remind me of you. Even some of the things I never used to understand—or even be slightly irritated over as a kid… guess what… I do them too. Like today, after church… after we got home and the girls started audibly getting on each other’s nerves… I heard you doing that thing you’d always do when Tris and I would argue and your patience was running thin… the casual prayer voice… “God, give me patience with these WONDERFUL children You gave me…” except I was the one saying it. And they were the ones looking at me like I had twelve heads.
I get it now. It wasn’t easy raising three girls whose personalities tended to clash at the most inconvenient times. If you prayed for me to be able to understand those struggles ‘one day’… I guess God answered that one because that’s about to be me too… Well played, Mom… well played.
I miss you.
Love always,
“Pookie”
This is the actual version of the song… not my half-singing between tears version.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 