Tag: mother loss

Honoring My Mother

Diana B.1 Comment

In honor of my beloved Mama this Mother’s Day, I am re-posting this letter I wrote to her last October — 7,670 days after her death.

mama

Dear Mama,

Oh, how I miss you. It’s been 21 years today since we said goodbye. Exactly 7,670 days. A small part of me feels like that tragic day was a hundred years ago and happened to someone else entirely, and another small part of me feels like that tragic day was not long ago at all, and I am still a grief-struck teenager wondering how I’ll ever carry on without you to guide me.

I remember a bedtime story you used to tell about a lost traveler. Actually, I don’t remember any details about the main character. Maybe it was a donkey? But I remember the moral of the story was to always know who you are and where you are going.

fallfunmisc 214ah

Becoming a motherless daughter as a teen made me question who I was and wonder where I was going. God, in His faithfulness, drew me in close to Him and taught me that life’s really more about knowing Who you belong to and where you are going. I am so thankful that I belong to Him and am on my way to heaven. What peace, joy and hope I have in knowing this truth.

Yet the grief of mother-loss still comes in waves. Usually they are small, gentle waves, but even now sometimes the waves of grief can be surprisingly overwhelming. I long ago realized the grief won’t end this side of heaven. But by the grace of God, I am carrying on. Or actually, He is carrying me as I trust in Him to guide my steps.

fallfunmisc 125w

Being the mother of two little girls requires lots of guidance and wisdom, and so often I hear the lie that being a motherless daughter somehow makes me unqualified to be a mother. My new verse for fighting that lie is 2 Corinthians 9:8, “And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.”

I already have all I need to do this job! And being a wife and mothering these girls is a lot of work. It’s good work, but work indeed. I cannot imagine anyone else I’d rather spend my days with.

birdwatcherApril17a

And I am thankful that you met and loved Michael, even if you didn’t know back then that he would become my husband. He still re-tells the blonde jokes and OSU jokes you told him, and he laughingly recounts the time you told him sailboats only move by continental drift. He’s a wonderful husband and a great daddy.

moreruby 077i

One of my deepest longings is for you to come to our house and meet our sweet little girls. These two lovely granddaughters of yours, each is her own dear and special person.

fallfunmisc 401ai

But oh, how they both remind me so very much of you with their piano-playing, book-consuming, chocolate-loving passions.

fallfunmisc 019c

The oldest daughter is almost 11. I remember you always said that was the perfect age, and now I understand why. She’s so helpful and sweet. She has your big, dancing-blue eyes, beautiful, mile-long smile and slender little legs. She looks so much like the pictures we have of you as a little girl, and she fills our house with the snip-snip of scissors and the low steady hum of the sewing machine. I remember those sounds filling up your bedroom when you were sewing me a new dress or teaching me how to make a pillow. How I wish you could spend a day sewing doll clothes with this daughter. For the longest time it was too painful for me to sew with her because that was something you and I did together and I just didn’t feel confident without you. But this girl, she is a fearless seamstress with such nimble little fingers. Just a few weeks ago, she encouraged me to help her make her little sister a doll for her birthday.

goldenlb 059

What fun we had picking fabric, stitching things together and being sneaky about the entire project so her sister wouldn’t find out.

fallfunmisc 051g

The youngest daughter just turned 8 and she has your big, dancing-blue eyes, too. Her hair is the same beautiful caramel-strawberry blonde as yours, and you’d be delighted to know that hers is naturally curly, as you always so desperately wished yours was. Like you, this girl is quick with numbers – and she especially likes double-checking her math worksheets on her new adding machine. Give her a little more time with that thing, and I can just imagine the rolls of adding machine paper cascading like a waterfall across our schoolroom table, just like the rolls of paper flooded the floor of your office on busy days. This daughter’s sense of humor reminds me of yours; she loves telling jokes and has a quick wit that catches me and her daddy off guard sometimes. At church the other day, when our pastor was talking about us becoming more like Jesus spiritually but not physically, she grinned and quipped, “That means we don’t have to grow beards.”

I guess that’s the sum of what all these 21 years of motherless days adds up to – your own little girl growing up to be a wife and mother and, by the grace of God, becoming confident that He who began a good work in me will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

fallfunmisc 193ae

I love you, Mama, and I can’t wait to see you on that glorious day.

Hugs and kisses,

Diana

7,670 Days Later

Diana B.7 Comments

Dear Mama,

Oh, how I miss you. It’s been 21 years today since we said goodbye. Exactly 7,670 days. A small part of me feels like that tragic day was a hundred years ago and happened to someone else entirely, and another small part of me feels like that tragic day was not long ago at all, and I am still a grief-struck teenager wondering how I’ll ever carry on without you to guide me.

I remember a bedtime story you used to tell about a lost traveler. Actually, I don’t remember any details about the main character. Maybe it was a donkey? But I remember the moral of the story was to always know who you are and where you are going.

fallfunmisc 214ah

Becoming a motherless daughter as a teen made me question who I was and wonder where I was going. God, in His faithfulness, drew me in close to Him and taught me that life’s really more about knowing Who you belong to and where you are going. I am so thankful that I belong to Him and am on my way to heaven. What peace, joy and hope I have in knowing this truth.

Yet the grief of mother-loss still comes in waves. Usually they are small, gentle waves, but even now sometimes the waves of grief can be surprisingly overwhelming. I long ago realized the grief won’t end this side of heaven. But by the grace of God, I am carrying on. Or actually, He is carrying me as I trust in Him to guide my steps.

fallfunmisc 125w

Being the mother of two little girls requires lots of guidance and wisdom, and so often I hear the lie that being a motherless daughter somehow makes me unqualified to be a mother. My new verse for fighting that lie is 2 Corinthians 9:8, “And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.”

I already have all I need to do this job! And being a wife and mothering these girls is a lot of work. It’s good work, but work indeed. I cannot imagine anyone else I’d rather spend my days with.

birdwatcherApril17a

And I am thankful that you met and loved Michael, even if you didn’t know back then that he would become my husband. He still re-tells the blonde jokes and OSU jokes you told him, and he laughingly recounts the time you told him sailboats only move by continental drift. He’s a wonderful husband and a great daddy.

moreruby 077i

One of my deepest longings is for you to come to our house and meet our sweet little girls. These two lovely granddaughters of yours, each is her own dear and special person.

fallfunmisc 401ai

But oh, how they both remind me so very much of you with their piano-playing, book-consuming, chocolate-loving passions.

fallfunmisc 019c

The oldest daughter is almost 11. I remember you always said that was the perfect age, and now I understand why. She’s so helpful and sweet. She has your big, dancing-blue eyes, beautiful, mile-long smile and slender little legs. She looks so much like the pictures we have of you as a little girl, and she fills our house with the snip-snip of scissors and the low steady hum of the sewing machine. I remember those sounds filling up your bedroom when you were sewing me a new dress or teaching me how to make a pillow. How I wish you could spend a day sewing doll clothes with this daughter. For the longest time it was too painful for me to sew with her because that was something you and I did together and I just didn’t feel confident without you. But this girl, she is a fearless seamstress with such nimble little fingers. Just a few weeks ago, she encouraged me to help her make her little sister a doll for her birthday.

goldenlb 059

What fun we had picking fabric, stitching things together and being sneaky about the entire project so her sister wouldn’t find out.

fallfunmisc 051g

The youngest daughter just turned 8 and she has your big, dancing-blue eyes, too. Her hair is the same beautiful caramel-strawberry blonde as yours, and you’d be delighted to know that hers is naturally curly, as you always so desperately wished yours was. Like you, this girl is quick with numbers – and she especially likes double-checking her math worksheets on her new adding machine. Give her a little more time with that thing, and I can just imagine the rolls of adding machine paper cascading like a waterfall across our schoolroom table, just like the rolls of paper flooded the floor of your office on busy days. This daughter’s sense of humor reminds me of yours; she loves telling jokes and has a quick wit that catches me and her daddy off guard sometimes. At church the other day, when our pastor was talking about us becoming more like Jesus spiritually but not physically, she grinned and quipped, “That means we don’t have to grow beards.”

I guess that’s the sum of what all these 21 years of motherless days adds up to – your own little girl growing up to be a wife and mother and, by the grace of God, becoming confident that He who began a good work in me will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

fallfunmisc 193ae

I love you, Mama, and I can’t wait to see you on that glorious day.

Hugs and kisses,

Diana

In Memory of Mama

Diana B.8 Comments
NOTE: In honor of Mother’s Day, I am reposting this from May 2010.
Mama and me in 1989

Eyes dancing blue, smile warm and bright 

Heart always true, hugs always tight 

Sweet memories stay, though you have gone 

In my heart may your legacy live on. 

  

I cried today. Mother’s Day is a hard day for me. It’s hard because I can’t be with my mom, or call her, or tell her how much I love her. 

This is the 17th Mother’s Day since I lost my mom to cancer. So now half of my life I have been “celebrating” Mother’s Day as a motherless daughter. Every year, I struggle with the lingering loss and the disappointment that my mom is no longer a part of my life and will never be a part of my children’s lives. Sometimes, I worry I am forgetting my mom, and that, too, is painful. 

This Mother’s Day, in memory of my mom, I thought I’d tell you a little of what I remember about her and how I’m dealing with being a motherless daughter. 

Mama and me in 1981

Mama did all the things good mothers do. She kissed my skinned-up knees, sang sweet songs, and hugged me tight. She always knew just how I liked my sandwiches fixed and wrote little love notes on the napkins she slipped into my Holly Hobby lunchbox. She also had a big wide smile that went on for miles.  

But sometimes Mama’s face transformed. Her jaw set back so that her beautiful, perfect white teeth formed a very unnatural underbite. Oh, that’s when I really knew I was in trouble. That was her “I-am-mad-and I’m-trying-to-regain-my-self-control” expression. Every good mom has a look like that, and every good kid who sees it knows she’d better duck and run! 

Most of the time, though, Mama was cheerful and high spirited. The very outgoing life of the party. The glue that kept our family together. Mama’s eyes danced clear blue, and she told funny stories and jokes and laughed a lot. Mama’s laugh was so loud and contagious. Sometimes it embarassed me, but that rollicking laugh was unforgettable. 

She’d never have said so, but Mama was an amazing seamstress. She made me so many beautiful dresses when I was a little girl. She even made the white prom dress I wore my junior year, and the only pattern she used was the picture I tore out of a teen magazine! Yep, she was that good.   

Mama also was quite well-known in our small town as a financial whiz. She owned and managed a very successful tax consulting and bookkeeping business. As a little girl, I loved going to work at her office on summer days. I sat at her receptionist’s desk since the receptionist usually only worked full-time during tax season. I typed on the typewriter and played with the copy machine and the adding machine. I felt so grown up and important behind that desk. I felt just like Mama. 

Of course, nobody could enter numbers on a ten-key adding machine faster than Mama. How I loved to watch her fingers fly across the keys and hear the machine hum and struggle as it raced to keep up. I watched in awe as the long, curly rolls of adding machine tape spilled over the edge of her desk and onto the floor. How could one person enter so many numbers in one day? When I got older, I helped Mama with some of the filing and bookkeeping work. Back then, I wanted to be an entrepreneur just like Mama. 

When it wasn’t tax season, Mama could be quite a night owl. She’d curl up on the burnt orange sofa in the den and speed read through romance and mystery novels long after tucking me and my brother into bed. That’s also when she’d sneak some chocolate from the kitchen. You could say chocolate was her weakness, but I’d say it was also her strength. Mama baked — mostly from scratch — the best chocolate desserts I’ve ever eaten! Chocolate pies, chocolate cheesecake, chocolate cookies, chocolate cake, and brownies — just to name a few. Her baking motto: “If it isn’t chocolate, why bother?” Spending time in the kitchen with Mama is probably my favorite childhood memory. I always got to lick the beaters. 

No doubt the best smell of home was something chocolate baking in Mama’s oven. And the best sound of home was Mama’s fingertips gliding along the piano keys. I loved to hear her play. One of my favorites that I always begged her to play was “Grandma’s Feather Bed” by John Denver. Another favorite was the “The Baby Elephant Walk” by Henry Mancini. 

While her long, slender fingers were made to play piano, Mama did not have a green thumb. Even though she grew up on a farm, she claimed she had a “black thumb” and she kindly passed that along to me, too. But even with a black thumb, Mama managed to grow lots of tomatoes every summer, and her flowerbed usually overflowed with Impatiens. My favorite, though, was the a lilac bush, and the tulips that lined the big front porch. Outside my bedroom window was the crooked tree. It was so crooked, my brother and I could almost walk as we climbed up into it. Around the crooked tree is where Mama planted the iris bulbs she dug up from her grandma’s farm in western Oklahoma. Mama loved those irises. They were shades of purple and blue. Blue was her favorite color.  

The spring before Mama died was especially stormy, even by Oklahoma standards. During one severe thunderstorm, lightning struck that crooked tree and destroyed it. Daddy hauled off the tree, and that left the irises looking lonely and awkward and misplaced.  

After she died, I decided Mama was the crooked tree — a lovely but imperfect person that I had adored and had tried so hard to please. I was the irises left behind, wondering where the center of my life went, feeling lonely and insecure and out-of-place. A daughter without a mother. 

But praise be to God! He uses loss. He uses affliction. He uses pain. I’m here to testify that God used Mama’s death. He used it to draw me into a deeper relationship with Jesus, the One perfect person worthy of centering my life around, worthy of my trying hard to please. In Him I find my security and my direction in life. To Him I belong. 

“God sometimes washes His children’s eyes with tears so that they may read aright His providences and His commandments.” – unknown 

Mama was so very precious to me, and I miss her in more ways that I can ever count up on an adding machine, much less blog about here. She is so much a part of who I am today. I thank God for the years that I had with her, and I thank Him for being so faithful in the many hard years since losing Mama. God truly has shown Himself as the Great Provider. He cares for me and loves me, even more than Mama did. And He knows me, even better than she did. He knit me together in her womb, and He numbered all our days — hers and mine — the days we’d have together and the days apart. 

God also has given me two beautiful daughters, who constantly remind me of Mama in so many special little ways — including the dancing blue eyes and the contagious, rollicking laugh. 

Mother's Day 2010

Thank You, God, for knowing just how to comfort us in our loss and give us peace beyond our understanding. Thanks for being the perfect center of our lives. 

And thanks for blessing me with Mama.