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,
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 