Moved to another platform

Hi all. Just want to let you know I've moved this blog to another platform: http://whatlivingfeelslike.wordpress.com/   I hope you'll follow me there. I think there'll be more posts about what living feels like in the future. Thanks for reading. God bless you all.

Consequences

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom lately. So many things about where I’m living now, Belgium, remind me of her. We were together in Germany for several years when I was a teenager, so my life and hers were inextricably wrapped up in European scenery, food, art, people. Those who followed this blog from its inception remember that I always wanted to bring her back here, to relive some of our memories and let her see some places she always wanted to see; I never got to do that, unfortunately.

Yesterday I went to Amsterdam to visit the Van Gogh Museum there. It is an interesting city, not one of my favorites by any means, but interesting nonetheless. It is both beautiful and ugly, in both literal and symbolic ways, with its gorgeous canals and dramatic architecture on the one hand, and its red light district and numerous druggies and street people on the other. Fascinating is a better term than interesting, I would have to say.

When you’re in Amsterdam, you can’t help but notice the many people on bicycles. Literally hundreds. They ride because the traffic is terrible and because it’s cheap, I suppose. They are of all ages, from youths to older people. They are evidently ridiculously fit. I saw one lady, probably at least 70, bent over and bundled up in a coat and scarf with sensible, old-lady shoes, riding her bike purposefully and carefully. I was amazed, thinking back to how young Mom was when she died, just 67, and how unfit she was, how feeble, at such a young age.

Later I saw another older woman, this one probably closer to 80 but even more fit looking than the one on the bicycle. She was very thin, with very short, spiky white hair. She was wearing skinny jeans and running shoes, and she was walking with great vigor. I thought, “Mom. How different might your life have been if you had lived here. Or maybe if you hadn’t let your world shrink so much.” From a vital, fun-loving woman who had traveled and lived abroad, my mom became a homebody whose world was confined at best to small regions of two southern US states and at worst, to two tiny counties in the smaller and lesser of those two states.

Both my mom and her mother became unfit at early ages. I suppose it was due to several factors. First, they smoked. That was probably a big part of the problem. Second, they both moved when they were in their early 60’s to places where there were kind of isolated, where they didn’t have a lot of reason to get out of the house much, didn’t have many friends. As a result, they stayed inside, didn’t have much of a social life, and didn’t get exercise. Finally, things happened with their health and personal lives that depressed them and sucked some of the life out of them, and health issues made it harder for them to leave their houses and the rest of their small worlds.

As happy as I am here in Belgium, I still think of Mom so often, and I have so many wishes that she might’ve done things differently, that she might’ve lived longer, better, and more healthily. Makes me think about my own choices, about keeping fit, about not overeating or drinking too much.  But really, how much power do we have over that part of our destiny?  The husband of one of my friends, a health-conscious, fit man, not yet old, died in his sleep a few years ago. The truth is, when it’s time to go, it’s time. Still, I wish Mom had been able to be like that woman with the spiky white hair, walking with strength in her step and a light in her eyes, in spite of her advanced age. We might’ve traveled to Europe again. I would’ve liked that. She would’ve, too.

Hold onto the Old; Welcome the New

2011 was a year of change and adventure, and a year of sadness. I moved yet again, back home to New Hanover County, without doubt the most beautiful area in the world: sun, tall pines and live oaks, dunes, the ocean, sunrises that stun the senses and sunsets over the water on the EAST coast. (Yes, it’s true[i].) I visited Iceland, land of severe and startling beauty. I met interesting people and developed lasting friendships. I accepted a position with DODEA and am preparing to move to Europe, another homecoming of sorts. And I have wanted to share it all with my mom, who is really and truly Home, but to whom I wasn't ready to say goodbye when she went to be with Jesus just over a year ago.

 In the blog entry from June 19, 2011 I said, “Life is precious, life is sweet. And sometimes it is bittersweet.” I would amend that now to say “often” instead of “sometimes.” This recent move to Wilmington has been filled with bittersweet reminders of the years we spent together here when I was a child --

The USS North Carolina:  I recently visited the noble vessel with friends, something that I had done with Mom when I was about eight; she taught me to admire the sailors who served on her, to the point that I even served in the US Naval Reserve myself. The smells on the ship are overwhelming memory inducers, and this recent trip took me back to that first visit.

Carolina Beach:   The tiki bar is one of my favorite places. It sits on what is left of Center Pier, across from the land that once held the motel that Mom owned. Eons ago, when I was about seven, she walked me all the way out on Center Pier during a strong gale. She was terrified of hurricanes but loathed the thought that I would be, so we walked in the furious wind, my hand held firmly in hers, and she talked with me as if everything were perfectly normal. Only later would I learn that she was absolutely beside herself with fear, but so sternly determined that I not be afraid of wind storms that she swallowed her terror, and I, because of her sacrifice, have literally slept through category 3 hurricanes.

Wrightsville Beach: Standing on the sand, watching the waves and the fishermen, I remember Mom casting the line from the shore. At 5'4" and 110 pounds, she could cast as well as most men. She taught herself to throw a cast net and gig for flounder, too, which she filleted and cooked like nobody else.

The Intracoastal Waterway: Every time I pass over an ICW bridge, I can almost taste the oysters we gathered and ate, standing on the sand. I still feel weight of the knife I held in my hand and how it scraped against the oyster bed as I mimicked her motions, learning to pull the individual shells away from the bed and then open. If I lick my lips, I taste the salt.

These and countless other landmarks, smells, and tastes cause memories to flash in my mind of things we did together here over the course of my life. She shared her love for this beautiful and varied place with me. It will always be home to me, as it was to her.

Now the move to Europe floods me with thoughts of her; she and I made a similar move many years ago, to Germany, and I so want to hear her thoughts. Just a few nights ago, as I was driving to a New Year’s celebration, I thought of calling her to ask her advice. After over a year, I still reach out for her frequently. The past thirteen months have been filled with memories of Mom, thoughts of what I want to say to her or ask her about, of things I wish I’d done differently, of questions about what eternity is really like.

2011 was a tough year. I have worked really hard at my job, and I’ve moved once and begun a second move. I’ve embraced my singleness, letting go of most of the vague dreams I once had of some fictional Prince Charming, realizing I am pretty content in my life with my pets and my friends. I’ve done all of it while mourning the loss of my mom. I have confronted everything with enthusiasm, in Mom’s example. So, in spite of the pain, I’ve begun to be relatively happy again.

There is a saying, “out with the old, in with the new.” I prefer “hold onto the old, welcome the new.” The old must never be tossed out; it makes us who we are. We must hold onto it, cherish it, nurture it, so that we are open and ready to enfold the new into us, and assimilate it all into a new whole.  As I face 2012, I resolve to hold onto the memories of my mom and all she meant to me, as well as all the rest of the good and bad of my past, and welcome the new adventure that is in front of me. There will be difficult days ahead, but life is still precious, sweet, and bittersweet. I am grateful for all I’ve been given. God is still good, and I am still His.

---

[i] Because NC’s coastal geography juts in, then out, then back, some of its coasts are western-facing. Little known and lovely fact.

November Again

It is November. The brisk morning air and falling leaves remind me that summer is long past, and all around me I see evidence that Thanksgiving is just around the corner. I saw, in fact, as I drove home from work tonight, the years’ first stupidly early Christmas tree behind a neighborhood picture window. It is now just two weeks shy of the anniversary of my mother’s death.

On Sunday, I was gladdened to hear a friend tell me how wonderful it has been to have her mom nearby for the last few years. She expressed her disappointment that her mom had just left to visit her sister in another state through the holidays. A few minutes later she asked what I was doing for Thanksgiving, and I hesitated briefly before telling her that I’ll be taking my mom’s brother to her grave that weekend, that it’s been a year since her death and he hasn’t been back since the funeral. My friend commiserated a bit, then said how happy she is that her mom lives nearby now, and how lovely it is to have her here to be a grandmother to her children. She paused, then began, “I don’t know what I’ll do when Mom…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, of course; who can? My heart broke anew when she looked at me as her eyes filled. Finally she said, “I can’t imagine how horrible it must be.”

This month has been and will continue to be, I expect, the most difficult period in weeks. Every reminder of Thanksgiving fills me with regret and anguish. It is not surprising; I was expecting this month to be difficult. How can it not be? One nightmarish, empty year has nearly passed, and nothing fills the void. I continue to be shocked occasionally by the sudden realization that she is gone, to disbelieve it briefly, to think of things I want to tell her. There is nothing I can do except remember her with love, offer profound gratitude to God for giving us the years we had, and remind anyone who will listen, as I did my friend on Sunday, that they must leave nothing unsaid or undone, and that they must take advantage of every fleeting opportunity for sweet communion. 

Generous Empathy

A few nights ago, my phone rang and I didn’t answer it, as I was occupied with something else. Several minutes later, I listened in anguish to my voicemail, as a friend tearfully told of his mother’s death the day before. I called him back and wept with him as he told of his all-too-familiar disbelief and overwhelming grief, her relative vigor in spite of being in a nursing home, and his recent hopeful thoughts that she might actually outlive him. In spite of everything I’ve gone through in the past months, I didn’t have anything to say to him except that I am so sorry.

He is the second of my friends who have lost their moms in the past few weeks. In both cases, the ladies were quite elderly, had lived long and relatively healthy lives almost right up to the end, and their adult children and grandchildren knew they had only a little more time with them. Nevertheless…death came as a hateful shock and left behind people feeling like orphans. I wanted to help my friends somehow, to say something that would assuage their sorrowful hearts. My pastor recently spoke about how God’s dealings with us are not for us only, that they are meant to teach us and lead us to a place of generous empathy for the pain of others, and I’ve lived that truth out in the past. I’ve experienced the joyful awe of being an agent of comfort for someone because of what I’ve gone through. This time, though, when my friend called, I had nothing of value to say.

As I drove home this evening, I realized I was, and am, a little depressed. My friend’s phone call is on my mind, making me remember. I can still hear my uncle’s voice on the phone telling me, “Your mama’s dead.” He didn’t mean to sound insensitive, and I suppose he was hurting so much he wasn’t thinking clearly, but those words call out in my head over and over, and each time they tear my emotions apart. I think of my friends hearing those words from someone, and it breaks my heart all over again.

Losing my mom has made me more sensitive, and I am particularly empathetic toward those who are suffering loss. I’m glad to have this heightened empathy, but the ache in my own soul intensifies when someone, even someone with whom I’m not close, loses someone they love. Perhaps my own grief is too recent, too fresh and raw for me to draw on that empathy in a way that will help them. Maybe time will do its work and I will eventually be able to minister to others. For now, I just don’t think anything I might say will help them or me. Their grief, like mine, must be allowed to take its course, as long as it must, and generous empathy will have to wait.

Still

So it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything in the blog. Part of it is busyness. Part of it is an attempt to escape.

I have often thought of things I wanted to say in this medium. There is a stack of ideas in my head. They are not yet on paper. Every time I’ve thought of something I wanted to write about, I’ve gotten myself involved in some other activity and put the ideas out of my mind. They recede into the shadows but reemerge shortly, in vague feelings of melancholy or overwhelming waves of grief. They are always with me because thoughts of Mom are always with me.

In August, I went in to see my doctor for my yearly physical. She always chats with me a bit before getting to the exam. As usual she asked me, “So how are you doing?” I responded, “Well, it’s been a tough few months. My mom died last November.” And the tears started. When she was able to wipe the stunned look off her face, she recommended antidepressants, and I didn’t argue.

In recent months, I have moved home to a coastal city where Mom and I lived when I was little. I had wanted desperately to move back here while she was alive, as it would put me within two hours of her house. The move away from here just three years ago seemed so right at the time; I sincerely thought that an extra hour in the commute to her house would not be all that significant. I was so wrong. It was a terrible, horrible decision. That extra hour made an easy day trip impossible, and I was no longer able to be the kind of help she desperately needed. I am absolutely convinced that the absence of my frequent help contributed to her death. That is hard to take but take it I must. So here I am again, “home,” and I’m glad to be here. Nevertheless, it is bittersweet. Reminders of her are all around, and knowing I managed to get back here too late is a dagger in my soul.

My doctor said something to me as she was discussing the antidepressants: “I want you to feel sad when you think of your mother. I just don’t want it to stop you from living your life.” I think Mom would agree with that, frankly. I can go on. I can live my life, spend time with friends, even laugh and have fun. Nevertheless, the ache is always there, the knowing that she is not here with me, and yes, the wishing I had made different choices. I feel her presence and her absence at the same time, and sometimes it invades my whole being. Medicine may help, but there is no remedy for this, except maybe for time, doing its work, little by little. 

In the Wilderness

One of the devotionals that I often read, Streams in the Desert, was compiled by an American missionary named L.B. Cowman, who served in the early 20^th century with her husband in the Far East. As its name implies, it is intended to minister to those going through difficult times, what we Christians often call “wilderness seasons.” I’ve been reading this one for a very long time.

This present wilderness began in Spring 2006, when a very important companion animal died. I had a bond with this particular cat that was unusual, even for me, an avowed “animal person;” he was as much a child to me as I can imagine, never having had a child of my own. I mourned him hard. Follow that in Summer 2006 with the death of my marriage, then the death of my work in 2007, then in 2008 a move away from ALL of my friends, and the restarting of a former career. In 2010, I began to think I was coming out of the wilderness: I was rekindling some lovely old friendships, was in my element at work, had traveled twice to Spain, the land that has my heart, and was enjoying an interesting relationship with a guy I was undoubtedly falling in love with. His insulting rejection of me in August of that year proved to me that I was not out of the woods yet, as it were. A few months later, the dénouement: the death of my mother. I plunged deeper in the wilderness than I had ever gone before.

Recently I had lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in more than a year. This friend and I have both gone through some pretty deep wilderness seasons. I was happy to hear that she seems to be coming out of hers. She has a new job, one that seems to suit her perfectly, is living in a city she loves, three minutes from her parents and less than an hour from her brother, she just joined a church she’s excited about, she’s content in her singleness, and she is happier than she’s been in years. It was good to see her that way! She is coming out of her wilderness and I am beyond happy for her.

This friend had met my mom a time or two. Naturally, she asked about her death, saying “All I know is she was here one day and the next she was gone.” I said, “That’s pretty much all I know, too.” It seems I don’t know anything except that I hurt for the absence of her; I continue to feel more alone than ever.

I don’t often subject people to my sadness. I just try to be happy when I’m with people, and I usually am. When I’m alone, though, all bets are off. I still cry regularly; songs or something I read may set me off. When I get in my car, if the drive is more than an hour or so, sadness will usually overtake me at some point along the journey. This heaviness has become a part of me that I can’t shake. I don’t want to stay in this place, but I can’t seem to come out of it, and maybe I’m not supposed to, at least not for a while longer. It scares me a little though because I don’t want to make this wilderness my home. You’re supposed to go THROUGH a wilderness, not set up permanent residence there.

Most of my friends who’ve lost their moms attest to the lasting quality of the loss. One, a 72 year old woman, told me, “Sometimes I still think of my mama and just boo hoo.” Another friend lost her mother probably thirty years ago now and the last time she mentioned her to me, her eyes filled with tears. Apparently this is normal. So I am coming to terms with the fact that I will probably be in a similar state when I am much older, years from now, and that is okay; she was far too important for me to think I will ever stop missing her. I will not accept that this wilderness is my destiny, though. I will come out from here, when it is time, because my Father will bring me out. He will not leave me here forever.

Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? I awakened you under the apple tree. There your mother brought you forth; there she who bore you brought you forth. Song of Solomon 8:5 Holy Bible, New King James Version

Therefore, behold, I will allure her, will bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfort to her. Hosea 2:14  Holy Bible, New King James Version

The Importance of Hearing

A few days ago, a caring friend asked me what I missed most about my mom. I thought for only a second or two before I responded, “Her voice.” Suddenly I felt the tears and before they could overflow, I said, “Stop, enough. I can’t talk about it.” My friend felt terrible as he tried to change the subject for me and move on from my unexpected reaction. I realized later that, strangely, I hadn’t thought before of this horrible truth: the familiar voice that I loved so much is slowly fading from memory and becoming harder to recall. This disturbs and saddens me.

It is said that of blindness and deafness, deafness is worse. Most hearing, seeing people seem to disagree with that, but I can totally understand it. I am a language geek, dialect mimic, music lover and dilettante maker of same. Sounds of nature fascinate me; one of my favorite CDs is music interspersed with nature sounds and wildlife calls. I so love the ocean partly because of the sounds of the waves pounding the shore and the seagulls calling to each other. When I study, I must have quiet; music only distracts me, draws me in. Often in the car, I turn the radio off so I can think. When I’m doing housework, however, I want music playing, loud enough for me to really hear it. And when I go to a concert, I want it LOUD, really loud, so nothing distracts from the entire experience of the music. Sounds comfort me, excite me, fascinate, disturb or distract me. Whether lovely or loud, sound is of vital importance to me.

Right now, just over seven months since her death, I can still hear the rich, velvetiness of my mother’s voice. For most of my life, she had a soft North Carolina accent that made her a delight for employers in Colorado, California and Germany; they were thrilled to have her as one of the “voices” of their organizations. During the last years of her life, her accent was made more pronounced as she shared her home with her sister, who rarely left the Southern Appalachian Mountains; I teased her sometimes about sounding like a hillbilly. Her singing voice was deep in the alto range; treasured are my memories of singing with her. She took the harmony as we sang together, until I learned from her to harmonize as she did -- a third below the melody; we favored Gospel and Country songs as our repertoire. After years of smoking, she lost much of her range but the notes she retained were still strong and full.

Hearing her voice in my head makes me smile. Bits of our conversations sound as real as the times I actually heard her speaking. Several specific things she would say are fixed in my memory. When anyone said something nice about me or my sister, she would affect this silly and unidentifiable accent and say, “Well, of course; she only takes aftah her mothah!” When she would call me and leave a message for me to call her, she would usually begin with, “Now, nothin’s wrong…” because she knew I worried about her. And her usual greeting to me: “Hey, Baby Girl.”  Her laugh is there, too, uninhibited, throaty, filled with abandon and absolutely contagious.

It scares me, though, that already some of her words are starting to fade from my memory; I have to think really hard to bring them to mind. She loved to watch “Dog the Bounty Hunter,” and she would tell me about it sometimes. I can’t hear her voice saying the word, “dog,” though. I can’t hear the accent exactly right. She would greet loved ones with a happy, “Hey!” but I can’t remember which word she favored with people she didn’t know very well, whether it was “hi,” “hello,” or something else. This forgetfulness is disturbing; I want to remember her voice!  I want to remember how she sounded as we sang together, and the sound of her laugh. Most of all, I want to remember her calling my name or calling me “Baby Girl.”

I realize how blessed I am to have been “Baby Girl” to her for so long; she called me that for fifty years! How lucky I am! It doesn’t do to feel sorry for myself; there are so many who don’t have their moms for nearly that long. I really do hope, though, that the memory of the sound of her voice stays with me for many more years yet; I dread the thought of saying goodbye to her voice, even though it lives with me only in my head.

Bitter and Sweet

How can one day contain this much emotion?

Yesterday, the Saturday before Father’s Day, I spent several hours with two people I haven’t seen in years, people who were two of my best friends throughout the 1990’s. One was my roommate and sharer of clothing, my shoulder to cry on, partner in prayer, and the melody to my harmony as we careened through the NC Mountains in my little white pickup truck or gripped microphones at church. The other was my concert-going, head-bangin' buddy, my “little brother,” with whom I was honored to walk as he loved and supported his first wife through her valiant fight against cancer, and then while he grieved in agony for her when she left him, much too young, to be with the Lord. These two remarkable people helped make me the person I am today; few others have shared such influence on me. We enjoyed a wonderful time together at his home, talking and laughing and feeling the years fall away.

A few hours later, I was standing over my mother’s grave, stricken again by her name on the stone and feeling intensely the loss. You see, in the misty and secluded southern Appalachian Mountains that my parents’ families have called home for generations, we have a tradition called Decoration Day. It generally falls on Father’s Day, and consists of family reunions and some sort of memorial for those who’ve preceded us in death. So the early evening found me helping my father’s sister carry and place flowers on the earthly resting places of my paternal grandparents at the family cemetery. A half hour later, quite alone now, I was tending my mother’s grave, as well as her mother’s and father’s, carefully placing flowers and preparing them for tomorrow’s visitors to the cemetery. Performing this task by myself was difficult, highly emotional, and left me feeling very lonely and very alone. I drove away with a heavy heart, experiencing her absence afresh.

A few hours later still, finally back home, I signed into Facebook and learned what I had missed when I couldn’t answer my phone when it rang in the early afternoon. My lovely friend in Chicago had called me but she didn’t leave a message. I guess she figured that telling me she’d gotten engaged was too much for a voicemail! I would have to agree. My happiness for her overflowed; she has patiently waited for God’s perfect choice for her, and He has proven Himself faithful once again. 

Throughout the day I alternately laughed and cried, and I welcomed the tears: tears of happiness, of missed years regained and friendships renewed, of joyful milestones, and of continued grieving. God is sovereign and He is good. He gave me precious friends, people who love me as much as I love them, and he gave me a mom who for 50 years made me feel as if I were the most special person in her world and who treated me as both her daughter and her friend. I am grateful to Him for all of these incomparable people who have enriched my life.

A current song by Wes King is playing in my mind: “Life is precious, life is sweet.” Sometimes it is bittersweet. And sometimes it is just bitter. But it is always precious.

Youtube video of Life is Precious by Wes King

Regrets

Frequently over the past months, I’ve heard people talking about regrets. Mainly they talk about not having any, not regretting anything you’ve done because it’s helped shape who you are today. It’s a good argument, at first glance, but it doesn’t hold up under pressure, at least not for the serious believer in Christ, and I would venture not very well for anyone with a conscience.

I regret a lot of what I’ve done over the years, from the time I was a little girl until now. Some things I’d do over if I could for my own benefit, like ignoring the outside influences that ruined the piano lessons I loved with all my heart, causing me to finally stop playing altogether. I would love to go back and change that; I am so musical, but it has very little way to manifest itself outside of singing, and I’m only a fair singer. Others are choices that caused a lot of pain for me and often for others. Two failed marriages scream to the top of that list. If I had married wisely, or not married at all, how very different my life would be now. I might be working in Spain or NYC, or I might even have children, for goodness sakes!

Some regrets are more painful, mainly because of the way my actions have hurt others. When my mom’s mother, my beloved Mimi, died in 1994, I immediately regretted not having spent as much time with her over the course of the preceding year as I had prior to that. It was all because of a stupid romantic entanglement that stole my attention away from her when she needed me. She had been so incredibly important to me, even living with us until I was about five years old, and when she died I deeply regretted having spent so little time with her over that year. Those choices haunt me still.

You would think, with that experience behind me, I would’ve made different choices with my mom. For a long while, I did. Then my career began to fail, and I finally had to take a job that moved me farther away from her. As a result, I didn’t get down to see her as often as I had before. When my aunt, her sister who lived with her, died last June, Mom started simply refusing to let me come. I think it was partly because she was depressed but also because when I came, I worked rather than just visited with her. She had so many things around the house that needed doing, and I wanted to clean out my aunt’s room.  Mom really didn’t want me to do that; it hurt her too much to even consider, so she simply wouldn’t let me come. The last six months of Mom’s life, I spent almost NO TIME with her.

Finally, last Thanksgiving, I decided to go see friends in New England instead of seeing Mom. I don’t usually do “family things” on that particular holiday. You see, I love the concept of Thanksgiving; I am very grateful for all the myriad of blessings I enjoy. But Thanksgiving has been marked in my life by unhappy events, from my paternal grandfather’s death in the 80’s, which resulted in my dad’s family’s relative denial of the holiday, to my mother’s drinking in the 80’s and 90’s that ruined several Thanksgiving celebrations on the maternal side of the family. So when Mom began getting sick, I was in Massachusetts. I returned just in time to fuss at her over the phone, try to get her to go to the emergency room, make her promise to go to the doctor on Monday, and then get the call, at school, that she had died at 6:00 in the morning, just hours before she would’ve seen her doctor.

I don’t know how to process all of that without regrets. It seems a hard-heartedness would be required, and it just isn’t in me. My heart is soft. I feel everything keenly. And so I live with a profound regret over having neglected Mom in the last months of her life. I wish I had coaxed her to let me come down by promising to just visit, or take her to lunch, or go with her to the doctor. I wish I had chosen to spend Thanksgiving, her last Thanksgiving, with her. I wish, I wish, I wish.

You can’t go back. You have to go forward. So I face front and lean into my future, but not without regrets.

Happiness and Melancholy

I am a Spanish teacher and recently I was teaching the difference between two particular verbs, both translated to English as “to be.” One verb’s usage is generally for things that can change; the other is used for things that are more permanent. You can use either with the Spanish word for “happy,” but it means something different depending on the choice of verb. “Estoy feliz” means “I’m feeling happy.” “Soy feliz” means “I’m a happy person; my life is characterized by happiness.”

I would never use the second sentence to describe myself. I am funny and I laugh easily, but am I a “happy person”? Um, no. Frankly, I sometimes think people who are always happy are somehow suspect.  I am a bit of a melancholy sort, introspective and sometimes brooding. Mom was entirely different. She pursued happiness as if it were some sort of prey. She reached for it and grabbed hold of it, refusing to let go. As a young woman, she was always doing something she found fun: boating, fishing, sunbathing, dancing… she loved to have FUN. One of my favorite photos of her is when she was about 24 or 25, and she is in an evening gown, leaning against a bar, holding a cup of what appears to be coffee; more likely it is bourbon. She is smiling, or perhaps smirking is a better word, and she looks like a million bucks. Other photos taken that night are of her dancing with her second husband and some of his friends, and she was having a blast. She was the life of the party.

She was worried about me when she died. A couple of weeks prior, she and I had talked on the phone, and we talked about how I was not really happy. The combination of a lot of things in my life had me more melancholy than usual; truth be told, I was a little depressed. Not clinical or anything, just sad.  I think it was the first time she realized how melancholy I can be. She said, “I just want you to be happy, Baby. I don’t want you to be blue.” I told her that it couldn’t be helped; this is how I am and there isn’t really a remedy for it. I said I would be alright, that I was content with my work and my pets, and that was enough for now. She was really distressed by this, but I couldn’t say anything to put her mind at ease.

In Christian circles, we often downplay the importance of happiness. Joy, we are told is what is important; we hold happiness almost in contempt and speak reverently of joy. Joy comes from within and is dependent only upon our right relationship with Christ, while happiness is nothing more than a lowly emotion that relies upon our circumstances to manifest.   I remember being told once, “God doesn’t care if you are happy or not. He’s concerned about your holiness.” I know He is concerned about my holiness, or lack thereof, as is certainly a more correct assessment. On the other hand, I think saying He doesn’t care about our happiness is probably an overstatement.

I wonder if part of Mom’s illness over the past year was due to her persisting unhappiness. She had lost her ability to hold onto it, largely because her life was so damn hard, and the day-in, day-out struggle with an angry husband, constant financial pressures, worry about her grandchildren, and other dysfunctions of our family were her constant companions.  I hope you can forgive the use of the descriptive “damn” in the preceding sentence. It’s the only word that works there because we are all living outside of Eden, and our pain is the result of the Fall of man. But that’s another blog post, isn’t it?

Happiness is elusive. Like the tide, it ebbs and flows. If you try to hold onto it, it cascades through your fingers. But God help me to be more like my mom in that regard, pursuing it, like a child chasing the waves at the waters edge. It is certain that I will not always be up to my neck in it, but at least may it always be lapping at my toes. 

Lessons on Darkness

A few days ago, my stepfather and his daughter packed up and drove away with almost everything out of my mother’s home, including photos of my sister and her children, a collection of my mom’s dollar-store figurines, some of my 20 year old nephew’s high school athletic trophies, and a dog that belonged to the same nephew. They did not do this because of love, but rather out of spite and hatefulness, largely because the humble house that my mother lived in belongs to me and so they have no claim on it. How do I know this? I know it because the stepfather actually said, less than two weeks after my mother’s death, that if he couldn’t get the house in his name, he’d burn it down. I know it because of the hateful words his daughter flung at me for no reason, starting just days after my mother’s death and culminating in a phone conversation where she told me that if I wanted her father out of the house, I would have to formally evict him.  I know it because of the mean-spirited insults aimed at my dead mother that so upset my nephew that he had to leave the house in order to maintain his composure.

The day after these angry people finally vacated the house, I read the following Scripture in my favorite wilderness-season devotional, Streams in the Desert[i]:

                And the ugly and gaunt cows ate up the seven fine looking and fat cows…and

 the seven thin heads [of grain] devoured the seven plump and full heads… Genesis 41:4, 7

The author expounded on these verses and drove the point home to me: it is possible for a good life to be overcome by hatefulness, bitterness, and anger, and the transformation God has made in a person may be undone, may even be reversed, if those evil emotions are given space. It reminds me of the words to a popular Christian song: “I don’t want to end up where You found me, and it echoes in my mind, keeps me awake at night…”[ii]  These words ring true; in recent days, I’ve thought of these two people with more hatred than I thought I was capable of feeling. The depth of this darkness in myself disappoints and frightens me.

We who call ourselves by the name of Christ are called to love our enemies![iii] How do I do that? How do I love such unlovely people, people who have done things expressly to hurt me? I frankly do not know how to do this. Somehow I have to find it in me to forgive them, and I don’t know how to do that either. What I want is to punish them, make them pay for the wrongs they’ve done, the things they’ve said, the disrespect that stings my mom’s memory. But to live the teachings of my faith, I have to admit the hard truth that I don’t have the right to do that. That right belongs to Another, One whose sandals I am not fit to untie (John 1:27, Holy Bible).  He can choose retribution if He wants, but it isn’t for me to decide.

The price for failing to forgive is high: there is a certain law of reciprocity in place. Jesus said that if we forgive those who hurt us, we will be forgiven, but if we refuse to forgive, we will not be forgiven (Matthew 6:14 – 15, and 18:35). I think the reason for this is not so much God’s unwillingness to forgive us, but rather the toll taken on our souls and minds by anger and bitterness. They fester, like a dirt-filled wound, and before long, infection takes over. In the end, if the infection isn’t overcome, death results. The only way to maintain my relationship with Christ is to cleanse myself of the foul emotions that are poisoning my soul.

I know what Mom would say: “Don’t let these people destroy you, Baby Girl; they aren’t worth it.” And she’d be right. It may take me a while to accomplish, years, I would surmise, and along the way I will probably often give in to my baser self, but with the help of the One who won’t let me go, I will forgive. I know that I’m not holding on to Him, but he’s holding on to me.[iv]

---

[i] Cowman, L.B. and Reiman, J., Streams in the Desert, Zondervan, 1999 edition.

[ii] Casting Crowns, East to West, The Altar and the Door, 2007

[iii] Matthew 5:44, Holy Bible, Zondervan.

[iv] Casting Crowns, East to West, The Altar and the Door, 2007. 

Mother's Day

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother’s Day. I know you are not HERE, breathing the air of Earth with me, but you are HERE, in my thoughts, in my soul, in my heart. I could say I miss you, but that would not begin to express the depth of what I’m feeling today, this first Mother’s Day without you.

The world feels darker and colder this year than in Mother’s Days past. The sun shines less brightly and the birds don’t sing as prettily. Music is less soulful and the stars don’t twinkle as they once did. Even the flowers are less colorful and fragrant. But the worst of all is I am more alone than I’ve ever been.

On the other hand, because you were and are my mom, I appreciate the warmth of the sun on my skin and the melody of birdsong; because of you, I know that these are gifts of the Most High and that I must never take them for granted. I adore daisies and black-eyed Susans and the scent of roses, thanks to you. Some of my most treasured memories are of singing along with you and the radio or with you playing guitar; because of you, Mommy, music moves me. And thanks to you, I know that the stars shine brightest when the world is darkest.

It is true that I am more alone than I’ve ever been. But I’ve never been really alone, not even now. I carry you and your legacy in all that I do, think and feel. Thank you, Mom, for everything you did to make me who I am. For better or worse, I’m your daughter and I always will be.

I love you still, Mommy. 

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is Mom’s birthday. She would be 68 --  a very young 68. I wish I could be happy and simply celebrate her life today, but I can’t. The continued turmoil connected with settling her paltry estate, all caused by two very selfish people, have made that impossible. Nevertheless, my love for her is as great as it ever was, and I choose to remember her on this special day and concentrate on the joys of our relationship.

If Mom were here, I’d be with her already, taking her to the beach or to lunch. Maybe we’d go to the mall and buy her a new outfit. Maybe we’d just go lie in the sun. It wouldn’t matter because we’d be together and that would be enough. It always was. Her birthday was an occasion, but so was any day we hopped in the car together. Even if we just went to the Huddle House, it was a little mini-event because Mom made it that way, just by virtue of her vivacious personality. Those fun days we spent together were too few, too infrequent; I wish I had done more of those things with her. I suppose everyone has that sort of regrets.

I’m sad that I don’t get to celebrate her birthday with her. On the other hand, if you celebrate birthdays in Heaven, she’s having a great one. Happy Birthday, Mama. I love you! 

Fear and Doubt

Fear and doubt have been nagging at me since Mom died. It is one thing to believe in Heaven and a good and sovereign God when the sun is shining and all is right with your world. It is quite another when the person you love most in the world is no longer living and breathing next to you. I have found my faith shaken these past few months.

If you listen to some Christian teachers, you’ll be asked to believe God sits on His throne rolling His eyes at our stupidity in doubting Him, yet the Bible is full of reassurances to the faint of heart. Max Lucado, in his Fearless: Imagine Your Life Without Fear[i], says Christ is recorded as having said, “Fear not,” “Have courage,” “Take heart,” or similar imperatives 21 times in the Gospels. The psalms again and again urge us to trust in the Lord and not fear. Psalm 112:7 tells us that “[the righteous] will have no fear of bad news,” that they trust in the Lord." Perhaps the most famous word to us faint of heart is Psalm 91.

 I had asked Mom a few weeks before her death what her favorite Bible verse was, and she unhesitatingly said, “Psalm 91.” “Verse, Mama, VERSE,” I replied. She couldn’t narrow it down; the WHOLE CHAPTER was her favorite. I like it, too; that particular psalm comforted me over a period of time many years ago when I first lived alone and would be nervous going from my car to the front door.  I re-read it after Mom died, and it’s really no wonder why she loved it so much; she, as I, often needed comforting.

Mom’s life was hard. She had lived life exuberantly and with abandon for many years, but for the last ten or so, she was very, very poor, at least by US standards. Her back and neck surgeries, necessary because of two car accidents she had in the early 1990’s, left her in pain most of the time and robbed her of her income. She worried a lot about getting by, and she worried even more about those she loved. When I was a teenager, she was afraid for herself and my sister and me because of the violent men she attached herself to. Until their deaths, she was anxious about her mom and her sister, for various and very real reasons. But lately, her greatest concerns were for my sister’s children.

She loved those children more than she loved anyone, even me, and she loved me with all of her being. She would often ask me to pray for them. She was afraid that her precious grandchildren would quit school, get involved in drugs and crime, never make a good life for themselves. She used to call me after talking with my sister or with one of the grandkids, to tell me whatever was happening, and I could hear the fear in her voice. She just wanted them to be safe, happy, and living “in the shadow of the Almighty.”

Psalm 91 portrays God as having wings. Verse 4 says, “He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge.” Some have said that this is referring to angels, because if we are created in the image of God, we would have wings if He does, and since we don’t, He doesn’t. Perhaps. There are other things in the Bible that I don’t fully understand. I just know my mom took comfort in knowing that she was safe under the wings of God, and she wanted the same for those she loved. 

Did God provide all these words of encouragement not to be afraid because He was mad at us? Isn’t it more likely that our loving, Heavenly Father knew that we are weak and frightened and wanted to reach out to us in hopeful reassurance? That’s what my Mom believed. It’s what I believe, too. My faith isn’t in danger, I don’t think. I’m asking questions now that may never be answered, at least not in the Temporal, and I’m not as sure of myself as I once was. Nevertheless, I can still say with doubters everywhere, “I may falter in my steps, but never beyond Your reach.”[ii]

---

[i] Lucado, Max, Fearless: Imagine Your Life Without Fear, Thomas Nelson: 2009

[ii] Rich Mullins, “Sometimes By Step,” The World as Best as I Remember It, Volume 2,” Kid Brothers of St. Frank Publishing, 1992.

All quotes from the Holy Bible are from the New International Version.

Mom's Car

I sold Mom’s car yesterday. It’s a good thing because I had cosigned on the note, and we were totally upside down on it. But it’s bittersweet. Seeing that car pull away pulled at my heart.

I had become accustomed to seeing it parked in my carport, and it was somehow comforting and painful at the same time; it was almost as if I expected to find her inside when I got home.  Mom loved that car so much; she had always admired big, fancy cars.  When her Intrepid’s engine gave out about a year and a half ago, she found this Cadillac, a 2000 Deville. It was a gorgeous car: silver, shiny, and beautiful. Mom was in love. I can still hear her voice on the phone when she got the car home:  “You should see my beautiful car!”

Mom didn’t get to drive her Cadillac very much. Her health deteriorated a bit soon after she bought it, so she didn’t feel up to getting out a lot, and she had a little trouble with the car, too. She put about six thousand miles on it, and then she had to put it in the shop for about two thousand dollars’ worth of work. That’s why we were upside down on the loan; she had to refinance it to pay for the work.

The last year of Mom’s life was even more stressful than the preceding ones: the deaths of two important family members, the instability of my sister and her children, my issues, her very crabby, jealous and opinionated husband, her financial struggles. Now even her car wasn’t right. She was such a lover of her independence, and for a few months, that independence was severely impaired. She was really happy when the car was finally repaired and running as it should. Unfortunately, she died less than a month later, even before the first payment on the refinance was made.

I know I had to sell the car. And I’m very grateful that God sent a buyer so quickly. Nevertheless, it’s another piece of my mother that is no longer with me. I noticed when I was preparing the car to sell that there was a rabies tag on her keychain – it was Annebelle’s. Annebelle, a poodle we’d gotten when we lived in Germany, was a piece of Mom’s heart, that one-in-a-million companion animal that Mom loved as much as she did her children. She died in the 90’s after some 20 years with Mom. Her rabies tag is on my keychain now. Mom would be happy about that. It makes me happy, too. Or at least less sad.

Dreaming

Last night I dreamed about Mom. It was a good dream. She was sitting in a place that wasn’t specifically familiar to me, but for some reason it felt like home. It looked very much like “her space”: a little cluttered with too much stuff, dimly lit, and very cozy. She was young, perhaps 30 at the most, with her gorgeous black hair pulled back loosely, swept to one side over her right eyebrow.  She was slender, too. I asked her, “Mom, how much weight have you lost?” She answered, “About 45 pounds.” I said, “Well, you look great.” She smiled hugely and said something in response, but upon waking, I lost the rest of our conversation. I woke up feeling very good, and the feeling has pretty much stayed with me all day.

I’m sure it sounds like a strange dream, as most dreams are. I didn’t perceive it as strange though. I saw her much as I would expect to see her, and in an environment that seemed right. Her surroundings bore her unique stamp: comfy, dark, and overflowing with dainty knick-knacks. You see, Mom could never say no to anything pretty and sparkly if she had the money to buy it, and because she loved yard sales and second hand shops, her home was full of things that made her smile, just a few too many of them! And her house was always dark because she was forever hot-natured. She kept the blinds closed to keep out the heat of the sun, plus she eschewed overhead lights, preferring small, fancy lamps instead. So in the dream, her environment was as it should be.

The conversation about her weight is not surprising either. Mom’s beauty had been a part of her identity since she was a little girl; people often remarked about the pretty, petite girl with the mane of dark curls.  She grew into a striking young woman with a feminine figure that she kept well into middle age. She wasn’t unpleasant about it, as some beautiful women are; her beauty was simply a part of her. She was often frustrated with the aging process. Recently, it became more difficult to keep her weight down, and for the past few years, she weighed – look at this; I just counted it out so I could write it down – almost exactly 45 pounds more than she had in her youth. She said to me many times over the past year or so, “If I could just get rid of this belly!” And so, in the dream she finally has, hasn’t she?

It’s no surprise this dream makes me happy. I don’t know how much is actual reality and how much are just my thoughts of her. I do know that she is young and beautiful again, like she was; of that I am certain.  Gone is the grey hair, and also the bleach blonde she loved so much in her later years; her black, native American locks are back, and they are gorgeous against her unlined, olive skin. She is petite and pretty, and comfortable in her skin, if I can say that about her now. This is how I remember her best.

 A few weeks after Mom died, one of my friends told me of her mother-in-law’s death at 55. Apparently she was a beautiful woman; my friend even pulled out an old yearbook and showed me a picture of her to prove it. She always used to say that she would die young, my friend said. In fact, she predicted her own death at 55. It seems she knew she didn’t want to become old, elderly, even, and perhaps infirm. She wanted to be always beautiful, always young, always happy to look in the mirror. The story is double-edged. It is sad to be willing to die rather than become wrinkled and old-looking. But it is happy because this Christ-follower is, indeed, beautiful again.  As is my mom.

I hope your home There is full of mirrors, Mom. 

Closure?

Last week something important in this journey of grief took place. In an event that won’t be ignored, the monument company installed the headstone on Mom’s grave.

 On Saturday morning, I left for the cemetery; I wanted to see the headstone and take flowers, and remember her. I spent the three hour drive up to the mountains praying, listening to Christian music, and generally trying to prepare myself for my first glimpse of the completed marker. I had chosen it, requested the short epitaph, made all the arrangements. But seeing it there was earth-shaking; there are no words to adequately describe the feelings that rushed over me upon seeing that stone.

I wasn’t prepared.

My mother’s name, carved into the cold granite, and the dirt now sunken, level with the ground around the grave, delivered a powerful blow to my soul. For just a moment, I was struck again by the disbelief. Then came the realization that, after three months, it is true and there’s no sense dwelling on the surreality of it. I was and am resigned.  

For a while I busied myself with the silk flowers I’d brought for the granite vase. I dusted off the stone. I repositioned the silk flower my cousin had sent to the funeral. I took some pictures to share with my uncle, Mom’s little brother. Finally I sat down there, in the red North Carolina mountain dirt, on top of her grave, and I tried, with little success, to pray.

There is something about thinking of your mother there, UNDER THE GROUND, that breeds a sort of panic. I had a taste of it when I was leaving the cemetery after the burial, when I saw them begin to crank the coffin down into the vault. Now I knew she was there, in the cold ground, and I hurt beyond belief.

It wasn’t long before I remembered though, of course, she isn’t there. Her body is, but SHE isn't. Not who she was and is. Not the vibrant, big personality I have loved my entire life. Not the essence of the generous, talented and fun lady everyone knew. I thought of the words to one of the songs I’d heard on the way up there: You’re in a better place, I’ve heard a thousand times.[i]  And I actually said aloud, “But knowing that doesn’t help, God.” Almost immediately, though, I blurted out, “That was stupid!” adding, “Yes, it does. It helps. It helps a lot. It just still hurts because she’s not here, and I miss her.”

This hurt won’t be put to bed by some sort of closure brought by a headstone or anything else. It just has to hurt. It won’t ever go away, but I suppose it will become less intense over time.  In the same song, MercyMe sings, “In Christ, there are no goodbyes.” Unfortunately, the song is mistaken;  there are most definitely goodbyes. However, thanks be to our sacrificial and merciful God, they aren’t permanent.  Nevertheless, “I’ve never been more homesick than now.” [ii]

---

[i] MercyMe, Homesick, 10, Simpleville Music.

[ii] Ibid.

The Destiny of All

Tonight I was watching a Barbara Walters show where she was talking about her and others’ experiences with open heart surgery. It drew me in because I am rather more interested in the fragility of life nowadays, as one might imagine. Walters, usually recognized for her considerable skill as an interviewer, spoke openly of her personal fear when faced with the prospect of such an invasive surgery, even of the slim but very real possibility of dying while undergoing it, and her co-stars on her daily television show, The View, weighed in. I was appalled to hear one of them, Whoopie Goldberg, say with incredulity, “This wasn’t some namby-pamby person. This was Barbara Walters! Of course she was going to be alright.”

I couldn’t help but think, “Really, Ms. Goldberg? Did you really just say that? Did you seriously mean to imply that my mom wasn’t famous enough, or smart enough, or successful enough, or WHATEVER enough to be protected from the final enemy?” I’m not usually all that sensitive, and especially not at the comments of celebrities. I tend to write them off as “too big for their britches,” to use a term that will certainly expose my Southern roots, but the comment caught me so off-guard; I didn’t expect to hear anything quite so asinine. Could anyone really think that Barbara Walters’ fame, intelligence, success or anything else will protect her from death? Death comes to all, whether of high or low estate, doesn’t it? Job 30:23 assures us that death is “the place appointed for all the living.”[i] That wisest of all men, Solomon, reminds us, “…death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart.”[ii]

On the same show, Walters interviewed former President Clinton, Robin Williams and David Letterman about their similar experiences. She asked Williams and Letterman if they had been changed as a result of facing such a serious and potentially fatal surgery. Williams spoke reverently of gratitude, and Letterman of living his life differently, of being a better person. Walters asked former President Clinton what he would tell people who were facing heart disease and possible surgery. He responded, “Look at us. We got a second chance.” Walters affirmed all their feelings as similar to her own. These four survivors, perhaps because of having to face their own fragility, recognize the fragility of us all. They have “taken to heart” the destiny of everyone. It makes it a little easier to forgive those who, in trying to be witty, reveal that they have not done so. May God help them, and may He help us all.

---

[i] Holy Bible, New International Version

[ii] Ecclesiastes 7:2, Holy Bible, New International Version

A Whispered Goodnight

I wish I could somehow keep track of how many times a day I think, “I’ll call Mom.” The words don’t have time to completely form in my head before I am jolted back to reality. It has happened time and time again every single day since she left here, bound for Heaven. I know I’ve said it before, probably several times, but it keeps happening, so it remains in the front of my mind.

Mom and I talked about everything. She told me what was happening in her life, and I told her what was happening in mine. Every celebration, every sadness, every success and every sin, we shared with each other. She and I didn’t spend a lot of time in the same zip code, breathing the same air, but we talked every day, with very rare exceptions. Everything of any consequence that I did or said, I saw through her eyes. Honestly, I still do.

So what do I do with those urges to call her? Obviously the telephone is out of the question, but can I talk to her? Some of my sweet and caring friends think I can. They say things like, “You can talk to her anytime, now; you don’t even have to pick up the phone. Just talk to her whenever you think of her; she’s always with you.” Others are of a completely different mind. One of my closest friends, the very well-read wife of a trusted pastor, amidst her encouraging words about Heaven and how we’ll see each other again, reminded me that families as we know them don’t exist there, and so my relationship with my mother has changed forever. Now mind you, she spoke those words amidst her own tears, because she was thinking of having lost her own mother several months earlier. Nevertheless, it was shocking to think about, and it stung.

I don’t want my relationship with my mother to change! Why would I? I never wanted anything other than what she and I had.  We shared something that none of my other friends shared with their mothers: an imperfect but altogether genuine friendship. What a treasure it was! From the time I was just a little girl, Mom talked with me like she talked with a good, close friend, and her demeanor invited me to talk honestly and openly with her, so I did. I always did. And now I can’t.

For the time being, my mom’s and my relationship is only a memory, and whenever it is that we meet again, it will never be the same. No matter how I wish it were true, I can’t agree with my loving, well-meaning friends who believe my mom is nearby. She lives on, it’s true, and I know she’s “at home with the Lord,” as Paul said in chapter 5 of his second letter to the Corinthians, and knowing that gives me great comfort! It means, however, that she is away from here, apart from me.

The pastor who did Mom’s interment service said something that has stayed with me. He said I could ask God, when I pray, to tell Mom I miss her and love her. So just maybe, hopefully, when I whisper goodnight to her every evening, God somehow sees that she gets the message.