Five Years Later

Several months ago, I was working at my computer when my mouse accidentally hoovered over my email folders.  Somehow, I’m not sure how, I inadvertently clicked on a folder called “Mom”.  My eyes scanned the page and I saw emails dated as far back as the year 2000.

I lingered on the page for a bit, scanning the various subject lines such as “Good Morning!” or “Dear Daughter” or “Hi Daughter!” or even “It’s Mommy!”  For several moments my right hand directed the mouse over various subjects lines as I contemplated whether or not I was ready for this.  Can I read them?  Do I want to remember?  Is my heart ready?  Up and down the the arrow of the mouse traveled while I took a reading of my heart.

In the end, I moved the mouse toward the top of the page and found my way out of the “Mom” folder. Five years later, I’m still not ready.

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Five years ago today I received the phone call that made my knees buckle from underneath me and stole the breath from my lungs.  Five years ago today I picked up my phone and heard the words that would forever alter my life and the way I view the world.  Five years ago today, I got the news. . .

I remember everything from that night.  I remember what I was wearing and and the time on the clock.  I remember the way 4-year old Charlie carried a Bible to me as I crumbled on the floor in tears. I remember the friends and family that were by my side in moments.  I remember writing in my journal that night. . . everything looks different.
I didn’t know then what I know now.  I didn’t know just how different everything would look and feel after losing my Mom.  I didn’t know how profoundly her absence would impact my life.

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During my first year writing in this space, I wrote about my Mom a lot.  It was healing for me to talk about it, to feel it, and to walk the journey of grief through writing.  My journey has continued through the years, but I don’t write about it as often.  On this day, though, I give myself  permission to write about it and feel the depths of it.

During this week, I feel the depths of it.

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I miss her.  I miss my Mom so much.  Sometimes, I try to imagine what it would be like if she were here today.  If she could see all that has happened since. . .

I wish she could see our life.  I wish she could see my kids and how beautiful their hearts have become. . .

I wish see could hear the way Charlie laughs or the depths of his sensitive heart. . .

I wish I could tell her about Chanelle’s beautifully old soul and the strength she carries in her little body. . .

Oh, and how I wish I could introduce her to Meadow.  How I wish I could tell my Mom that I was afraid to bring this baby into a world where she wasn’t.  I wish I could tell her that Meadow has brought us more joy than we ever knew and how I wish I could give my Mom a taste of the joy. . .

But you know what I really wish?  I wish she could see me. . .

I wish she could be here to see all the the ways I’ve changed in the last five years.  The ways that I have struggled and overcome.  I wish she were here to see the highs and the lows.  I wish she were here to listen to me when I’m scared and celebrate with me when I’m happy.  I wish she were here to tell me it’s okay when I think irrationally or when my heart hurts when I send little ones to school for the very first time.  

I wish she were here to tell me that everything will be okay, because she’s paved the road ahead of me. 

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When I was pregnant with Chanelle, I remember calling my Mom in tears because I was so far from a happy pregnant person.  Two days later this card arrived in the mail. . . 

This is the kind of Mom she was.

And that’s what I miss more than anything.  A mother’s love.  My mothers love.  My Mom’s love.
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The kind of love the will listen to all the great and mundane and boring and exciting details about life and share in all the ups and downs, simply because that is the kind of love that exists between a Mother and a Daughter.  

My heart will always miss that kind of love.  Her love.

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The night my Mom died I wrote in my journal, I know and believe that Mom loved me.  I know and remember that she was a good Mom.  Help me to grow from this. . .
It is impossible for me to talk about the loss of my Mom without expressing the incredible beauty that rose from the ashes of her death.  My prayer was that I would not get stuck in her loss, but find the beauty from it.  I’m thankful that God answered (and continues to answer) that prayer.

 I am not who I was five years ago–I just wish she were here to see it.

 As always, Story People say it best. . .

More than anything, I just wish she were here.