Posted in Dear Mom

4 October 2020: We went to church.

Narration
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, ā€œAll your father has to do is get himself ready and he’s STILL the last one out!ā€ 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, ā€œWe’re gonna’ see a victory! We’re gonna’ see a victory! For the battle belongs to the Lord!...ā€ 

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 ā€œWay Makerā€? 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… ā€œGod, give me patience with these WONDERFUL children You gave meā€¦ā€ 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 ā€˜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,
ā€œPookieā€
This is the actual version of the song… not my half-singing between tears version.
Posted in Dear Mom

2 October 2020: I remembered my prayer.

Narration
Dear Mom,

You didn’t know this, but on September 20th… around 3 A.M., I couldn’t sleep. I was upset about something personal and didn’t know how to work it out in my mind. So, I started writing again… for the first time in a while. You were in the hospital at the time. Bilateral pneumonia… and then they found bacterial infections in your blood. They couldn’t identify all the different strains. The doctors were scrambling trying to figure out the best course of action. 

When I sat down to write, there hadn’t been any update in a while. I thought, ā€œOkay, well no news is good news, so I’ll wait as patiently as possible.ā€ [You know how well that works out in our family though… do we get that from the Slovak side? Probably.] 
	
My journal entry started out with updates from the months I hadn’t written… then turned into unburdening my heart of all of the thoughts weighing it down… but somehow on the lines of page 4, my unburdening started turning into a prayer. It’s been on my heart again today. 

I’m so thankful for your examples of humility. For teaching us that it’s okay to be human. It’s okay to be imperfect. It’s okay not to have it all figured out. Because I’m undoubtedly imperfect. And I certainly don’t have it all figured out. 

So around 3 A.M. on September 20th, I poured my thoughts out into my journal… and somewhere in the midst of page four, I started to pray:

ā€œPlease help us, God. I know you have a purpose for us… I know and trust that You want what is best for our lives—even when we don’t know what that is ourselves… maybe even especially then. I’m sorry for all the times I fail. I’m sorry for all of the times ā€œmeaning wellā€ didn’t translate to ā€œdoing wellā€. Thank You for loving me even when I fall short. Heal my heart & make it more Yours than ever before. Revive my spirit with Your holy breath of life & recalibrate my focus to align with Your will. Mold our lives into testaments of Your glory & knit our family together with the strength of Your love. Holy Spirit be my conscience… be my compass… Lord, help me lead by Your example & be the woman of God my family needs. Help me to resist temptation to falter, be discouraged, or guilted out of Your mercy. I want to love my family with the love You have for us. Thank You for even the things I haven’t seen… the times You’ve upheld us & have kept Your angels watching over us. Thank You for being a God who answers prayer. Help me to worship You selflessly & live my life the same way… to glorify You in everything I do. Thank You for giving us the fruits of the spirit & the armor of God… help us to use our gifts wisely. Thank You for providing for us & for our loved ones & healing our bodies, hearts, minds, & spirits. I know I didn’t start writing in here at 3 AM expecting it to turn into a prayer, but I’m thankful it did. Thank You for hearing me, loving me, understanding me, and always being there for me—even when I’m stubborn & prideful & get things all wrong… and thank you for putting it in my heart to write. Help me learn to use my gifts in a way that brings glory to You. Help me love You more. That is the first step… and lots of patience… for myself & others. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.ā€

Right after I signed my name, my phone rang. It was Dad. He called me to say that they had to connect more tubes and machines to you. I tried to be encouraging… ā€œThat’s good news in a way, isn’t it? It means they have a plan of action to start getting the fluid out of her lungs.ā€ I choked back tears, hoping he didn’t hear the unsteadiness in my voice. It was a test. It just had to be. What is the likelihood of signing off on a written prayer and—within seconds—getting a call that early in the morning?   

I still don’t know ā€œWhy?ā€ or what it all means. But even though there is still confusion, there is also clarity. It’s okay for the concepts to coexist…just like grief, acceptance, and joy. I feel them all. 

Mom, you taught me to cast my cares. You taught me to look up. You taught me to trust in God and you tried so hard to break me from my stubborn perfectionism getting in the way—and hopefully, it’s finally starting to sink in. What can I say… I’m still a perpetual work in progress.

The girls miss you a lot. Aria prays for you every night still. Since September 25, though, instead of praying for your healing, she prays for you to have good adventures in Heaven. She wants to know if you’ve found Eliot there yet and if he’s behaving himself. She said it’s okay if he’s your pet now. 
I know that some days will be harder than others, but today I’m okay. 

I miss you, Mom.

Love always,
ā€œPookieā€
One of my Mom’s favorite songs that has always made me cry… ever since I was a little girl.
Posted in Dear Mom

30 September 2020: I spoke at your funeral.

Before I start, I just wanted to mention a few disclaimers:
I’m not a public speaker. I’m also probably going to cry at some point although I’m hoping to get through saying all of this without that happening. We’ll see how it goes. 

First of all, thank you for your presence. For listening. For caring. For your patience. For understanding… or at least trying to. This all still feels so surreal. I’ve never lost my Mom before; I don’t really know how I’m meant to behave and since she’s not here to scold me, thank you all for withholding judgment and for bearing with me… well, for bearing with all of us as we process such a gravitational loss. 

You know, you don’t really realize how grammatically strange it is to speak about someone in the present who has passed… until it becomes relevant. The tenses get all tangled up… the ā€œwasā€s and ā€œisā€s get mixed together and it’s really difficult to navigate which one to use while still making sense. But then again, not too much makes sense right now. 

I know that’s supposed to be her over there. My Mom. I know the doctors said that she ā€˜passed away’ … and I know that I was there. I saw it. Parts of me even died with her… in the literal sense, too. But it hasn’t really clicked yet.

It’s only been 5 days… Already, I’ve cycled through a spectrum of emotion I hadn’t even realized existed. I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever been so resentful in my life. I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed for her healing. So many of us did. All over the world. For months. For years, even…

But when the answer didn’t come the way I expected, I felt lied to. I felt betrayed. I felt abandoned. Did you? In a span of mere minutes, my thoughts went from, ā€œGod, I know You’re here and You’ve got this under control.ā€ to ā€œGod, where were You? Did You blink and miss it? What happened back there? Why did You let her go?ā€ 

But what I’m starting to realize is that He didn’t let her go… Instead, He held onto her and pulled her closer… to Him—even if that means that she’s farther away from us for a while. Our prayers were answered. She’s not in pain anymore. And the only reason we are is because we were so abundantly blessed to have her presence in our lives that her physical absence leaves such a heart wrenching ache. She is still alive in so many other remarkable ways. 

When I look in the casket, I don’t see my Mom. That’s not her likeness at all. My Mom was much louder. [Ask anyone who has ever overheard a phone conversation between her and any one of her siblings… fourteen or so ā€œOkie-dokieā€s later…] 

When I close my eyes, I see her the way I remember… understated beauty, sometimes with the 90’s poodle-perm hairstyle, sometimes without, but always full of expression—even if more-than-occasionally that expression was the ā€˜mom glare’ … you all probably know the one…she’d most-likely be giving it to me right now for talking about her like this.
 
My Mom wasn’t much of a spotlight chaser, but it’s kind of hard to have a funeral without the day being centered around who she was, who she is, and who she has in some way helped shaped each of us to be. Sorry, Mom… but you’re the reason we’re all here, so…*shrug* like it or not, you’re getting some extra attention today. ā€œDeal with it. Cope. Adjust.ā€ (that’s something she’d always say to us… I promise I’m not being rude).

There is so much more to be said, but I don’t want to monopolize the podium. I know that Jenn has something prepared and hopefully we can convince Tris to come up here and share the one about Montgomery Moose…. Plus, I have a feeling that if you’re here—or watching from afar… you have at least a few fond memories of your own. I’d love to hear them. 

But first, a quote from a book she would always read to me:

ā€œI’ll love you forever, 
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living, 
my Mommy you’ll be.ā€

Love always, 
ā€œPookieā€




ā€œTurn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of Earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.ā€



Posted in Dear Mom

29 September 2020: It’s been a rough week.

Narration
Dear Mom,

This is the hardest thing I've ever had to write... go figure, it's about you. 

For once, I can't find the words. 

P.S. - 

On the way driving back to the house from the funeral home today to set up the photos (we made sure you'd have approved of most of them; some were just too funny not to include), we saw a van that said, "P & J" (whatever type of company it was)... I smiled. Patty Jane. 

And then, the car in front of it had a license plate that said "BPOSITIVE"... your blood type. 
You're even creative with your subtle encouragements. 

I miss you.

Love always, 
ā€œPookieā€

Posted in Dear Mom

25 February 2020: Close to you.

When I was 10 months old, I had a hernia operation. The hairline scar grew with me throughout adolescence--and so has my love for giraffes. 

Let me explain. It was during that hospital stay when my parents presented me with a tiny little plush giraffe--one that looks almost like it was crafted in the style of a Precious Moments character and was probably almost as tall as I was at that age. I was fascinated. As soon as I was able to form words on my own, I called him "Joshy".  

Fast-forward through various holidays, birthdays, and souvenir-shop endeavors... from family members, friends, and even acquaintances... I was surrounded by giraffes. Drawings, figurines, stuffed animals, bedspreads (ironically enough, I don't actually particularly fancy animal print patterns), I amassed quite an inadvertent collection.

I even remember the best Christmas gift my parents had ever gotten for me. I don't remember exactly how old I was though-- nine? We were walking through a local warehouse-turned-flea-market... and in one of the stands in a display case (it's funny how I can still picture it in my mind so many years later)... on the top glass shelf on the left-hand side, behind a folded pocket knife that was meant to look like it was decorated by a mosaic of ebony/ivory... a forest scene, perhaps (it's neat how as you grow and learn more, your mind is able to fill in the gaps of childhood memories), rested the most beautiful snow globe I had ever seen in my life. 

The base was etched with jungle foliage--deep shades of green; it reminded me of the movie "Jumanji". Underneath the dome stood an acacia tree (I was a giraffe "know it all" and decided that it just HAD to be an acacia tree since that's their favorite snack) beside a mother giraffe and her calf. The thin filaments of confetti in the water gave off an aura of enchantment. But there was more. When the silver oblong crank on the bottom of the base was twisted (my parents had the man behind the counter try it out), the song "Close to You" by The Carpenters chimed out in a lilting fashion (depending on how many times the gear triggers were raveled). That was the first time I witnessed real magic. 

We left without it, though. I was crushed. I remember moping the entire way back home in the car--sandwiched between my older sisters in the back seat--probably playing a not-so-endearing 'game' of elbow wars and "she's taking up too much room and squishing me!". Forlorn and grumpier than ever.
When we went back some time later--it was already gone. My heart shattered.

After a while, I forgot about it--at least in the foreground of my mind. Months went by and winter came around. That Christmas--after all of the other gifts were unwrapped--there was one more with my name on it. "Pookie" [stop laughing; it's what my whole family called/calls me and I still don't quite understand why]. It was the snow globe. My parents were the ones who bought it from the vendor--they just held onto it all that time--letting me think it was gone forever.

The giraffes always symbolized my Mom and I... and "Close to You" became our song. I've moved around quite a bit since then... even across the country for a while... still, that snow globe stays with me.
But this story isn't about the globe. 

It's about a different journey... one that has been in the works for over a year now. I was waiting for it to sink in. And by all other facets of realization--it should have by now. But it hasn't. Not yet.  

My Mom--the same woman I've inherited my overabundant love of sentimentality from--the one who could turn a few dollars into a most cherished treasure just by putting some extra special touches to it... like a handwritten note or a stuffed-animal introduction and full imaginative backstory (yes, Mom, I'm talking about "Millie Ford" the giraffe)--she needs me now. After all of the hell I put her through growing up... even as far back as her high risk and complication-filled pregnancy with me... I finally have a chance to say 'thank you' and 'I love you' in a way that I never thought would be possible. I'm lucky.

In just a few weeks, I'm going to be the bone marrow transplant donor of the woman who battled through all of the worries, fears, emergencies, hospital stays, and obstacles just to bring me into this world. Her blood cells are going to essentially become replications of mine--we'll be sharing DNA on a whole different level. I hadn't realized that our song, "Close to You" would foreshadow an eventual symbiosis--it's even more perfect now.

The other day, while I was sitting downstairs at the kitchen table, my parents walked up to me with a small box--my Mom with a knowing smirk on her face. There might have even been the hint of a tear forming in the corner of her eye--the one she can't quite wink properly... I looked at her, not sure of the occasion, and lifted the lid. Inside was a delicately formed gold necklace... two giraffes... a mother and her baby... their heads nestled together to form a heart.

She said that she wanted to find a small way to show me how much it means to her that I was a match for the transplant and willing to go through with it [as if I ever wouldn't have]. My sister, Tristina (the same one I was undoubtedly elbowing in the back seat of the station wagon on the melancholy drive home from the flea market that one afternoon when I was nine years old) helped her find just the thing. A forever reminder of our Mother/Daughter journeys throughout the years and all of the adventures we have yet to look forward to together. I started to cry. It's perfect.
---
Why do birds suddenly appear
Every time you are near?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you
Why do stars fall down from the sky
Every time you walk by?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you
---
I love you, Mom. 
I love you, Dad. 
[I even love you, Jenny and Trissy.]


We're going to get through this.