There's a little white trailer on the corner of our street, nestled right where the bus stops for the children to come home after school. For the past two years, I've stood there waiting just about every weekday... wobbling there during my pregnancy with Norah, pushing her in her stroller as an infant, and recently just carrying her in my arms since she's about outgrown her buggy and we're usually running 'late' (which ends up still being ridiculously early most days).
I've seen the gentleman who lives there, but only in passing... a simple wave and a smile, followed by, "Thank you for letting me stand here to wait for the bus every day!" and a gentle nod in reply. We don't share the same first language.
Some days, I find myself waiting there for half an hour or more before the bus comes... others, it's mere minutes... but there's no telling which it will be on any given day. And holding a squirming toddler-sized-infant can get quite cumbersome after a while... even as a mom (I know we're thought to have superpowers, but that one must've eluded me).
The wait can be exhausting sometimes though... and when we get back home, my arms often feel like melted Jello... but I can't complain. And wouldn't. After all, I could just drive the car down instead... but the fresh air sure is nice. The walk is nice too. And Norah likes to point, babble, and look at the scenery as we make our way down the street. 100% worth it.
Today, as we approached the tree we usually stand beneath, I noticed something else already waiting there. As we made our way closer, the details came into view... it was a simple handcrafted wooden stool chained to the tree so it couldn't get mistaken for roadside pickings and hauled away. And it was there for me.
No words exchanged... just a simple gesture in a neighbor's absence... from one person to another, as if to say, "I see you and I can help." I'm overwhelmed with gratitude.
God is good and people aren't all bad either. Thanks for the reminder.
Dear Mom,
I haven't stopped wishing you were here. And I know that's selfish, but looking back through our last messages has me feeling like I lost you all over again. Except the grief isn't the same. It's still raw, but without the denial.
I should probably take comfort in knowing I can talk to God about all of the things I still want to tell you... I feel like I'm in a conference call with Him when I write to you... He knows it all... down to how many tears I've cried missing you and the ones that were over other things. I'm just a person... one who cries a lot, apparently. You didn't though. Cry a lot, I mean... at least not that I ever saw.
I couldn't sleep... there's too much on my mind... and I know you'd tell me first to cast my cares... and I do, mostly... but sometimes a stray one slips through... and sometimes my fickle heart reels a few back. I'm a person.
I hadn't looked at our conversations here in a while... or maybe not as far back as I did today... and I just felt so ashamed. I was so wrapped up in something I was going through back then that seemed so hopeless at the time that I didn't even notice the change in your replies.
Your usual lengthy, thorough responses dwindling down to sentence fragments and stray emojis as the days went on... and I just kept going on about my problems... oblivious to yours... and that huge situation in my life... the one I was messaging about so much during your last weeks... it doesn't even matter anymore. It's irrelevant... I didn't know I was wasting our time together because I didn't think we were going to lose you. I trusted that we had more of it together.
...and then I get to thinking that if I'd have just listened and casted my cares from the start, I wouldn't have been too blinded by the overwhelm of my own life to ask you more about yours. And we'd have fonder conversations to remember... but that's selfish, too... because you don't need to remember them... I do.
I know I can't change it. The outcome. And I know that I should learn from it... but here I am again... wishing I could talk to you about my life. Not that I'd have called you at 1 in the morning anyway... but somehow just knowing I had the option to was reassurance enough.
So I'll close my eyes, work harder on casting my cares (1 Peter 5:7) without reeling them back in, and wake up with more answers than I had when I fell asleep.
I'm sorry for the times I took you for granted... I don't anymore... because I can't.
I miss you something terrible, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
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,
The check-in lines at CHS were so long today... the end of Spring Break... I should have realized. I walked through the door and was met with a mass of people seeping out past the outlined stanchions. I didn't have any bags to check since I wasn't catching a flight--I just had to get a gate pass to meet the girls at B4.
As I waited in the crowd, a frizzy-haired woman approached the group of us at the end of a clearly-marked line and asked the general public, "Is this line for Southwest?" Not being the one closest to her, I assumed someone else would answer, but when no one did, I chimed in with a simple "Yes" and a smile-- smiles are invisible under masks.
She mumbled something about needing to make sure first and, thinking she was going to join the line, I made room. Except, she moved to pass through instead, wheeling her bag behind. It seemed strange. I thought she was looking for this exact line. I shrugged it off-- until she spoke again.
As she walked through, without even making eye contact she said, "Cast your cares" and continued on her way. It was unmistakable.
My eyes welled with tears.
... Mom?
I still had to go through security even though I brought nothing with me... physically, at least. My mind was still cluttered, heavy, and now a bit confused... what was that? Why did she say that to me? There was no context for it... I hadn't said anything to her besides, "Yes." I took off my flip-flops and put them on the conveyor. I couldn't get the stranger's words out of my head... "cast your cares"... just like you'd always say.
I stepped through the checkpoint, put my shoes back on, and started walking to the gate where the plane would be letting the girls out shortly... and then I heard it... a very distinct voice singing out. Van Morrison. Your favorite. It was the song, "Jackie Wilson Said"--not one of his most popular ones, but I knew it... it was one you liked to sing while you watered your plants... and despite the airport noise pollution, the lyrics were clear:
Ding a ling a ling
Ding a ling a ling ding
I'm in heaven, I'm in heaven...
...
You must've heard my silent cries this morning wishing you were still here.
I definitely felt your presence today... and... I'll try... and I know.I miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
It's your birthday today. I remember singing to you last year and how happy I was to be able to spend the day with you. I also remember how nervous you were because you had to go to Philly to start the transplant early the next morning where I would be joining you a few days later for my part of it.
I was nervous too and didn't tell you... but also excited... to finally be able to do something big for you after all you had done for all of us for so many years.
I know that birthdays are supposed to be a celebration of life... and I am eternally grateful for yours... I just wish that we had more time.
I remember playing it off like you still had so many birthdays left to celebrate... purposely trying not to make a 'big deal' of it so you kept your spirits high instead of being afraid--not that you'd have ever let on that you were scared. I don't ever recall a moment when you weren't brave... always so brave.
But now, looking back... I wish that I'd have made a bigger deal out of your birthday last year anyway... because you're so important... always have been. I just didn't know it was the last one we'd ever spend together. No one did.
I know you wouldn't want me to be sad, but it's truly hard not to be today. I'm trying. We love you, Mom.
I still miss you. 🤟🏻
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
It’s pouring outside again. We’ve been getting flash flood alerts off and on for weeks… the rain hasn’t eased up much in between either. You’d probably hate it here. I don’t usually mind it, though. I used to love the rain.
I feel sad a lot… and hate trying to come up with reasons that ‘make more sense’ for people to hear… ones that are also true... dreary weather… pregnancy blues… the overwhelming discomfort of these last weeks before the baby is here… lack of sleep… all more palatable than, “I just really miss my Mom and don’t always know how to compartmentalize the emotions in a way that keeps me behaving sociably”. It’s not even one of those things that you can just ‘talk out’. There’s only so much someone can say—and even then, it doesn’t really help.
I wouldn’t know what to say to me either… so I try not to put other people into the situation where they have to try to figure out what to say to make it seem better… which leads to self-isolation… and the resulting guilt from inadvertently distancing myself from everyone in an effort to spare them from grief… “it’s probably just the pregnancy hormones” … I try to convince myself, too.
“Rainy Days and Mondays” came on. You loved this song. The Carpenters. It fits. I used to think your singing voice sounded a lot like hers. You were just more self-conscious. I blame the nuns.
This morning marked Aria’s 100th day of school for this year. Her teacher said they could dress up like they’re 100 years old. You remember her outfit last year… the flowery/lace-collared mustard-colored dress with matching white sweater, big pearls, powder-haired bun, babushka, clip-on earrings, and round tortoise-shell glasses… She didn’t want to do that this year. She was going to wear a dress, the necklace, and the costume glasses, but she opted out of them saying, “I know Nonnie wasn’t 100 years old, but she didn’t wear glasses except for reading, so I’m not going to wear them today either.” They think about you a lot.
Nothing is the same anymore... not even the rain. 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"
Kaleidoscopic Grace 