Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

I know, I know, it’s been a while since I’ve written. There are so many times during the day when I write to you in my head, thinking of what I will eventually type out when I get a chance later on at night. But those letters in my head have a hard time making it to the computer as life catches up with me and I can’t convince my lazy self to have my brain construct a simple letter to you. That is how I always was before, though. Always thinking of things and making up stories in my head or adding to the previous one. Yet many of my wonderings and wanderings never made it past the cerebral realm. As the saying goes, “easier said than done” and such it was in this case. Often you were my idea board as I’d tell you what I was bouncing around my overactive brain–my brain somehow never stops, even if the rest of my body refuses to lift a finger–and you’d just listen and encourage me to write it out, or if it was a problem I was trying to sort, you’d give me that motherly advice that was such a valuable thing that I never thought I’d lose.
Then again, did I really lose your advice? Most of it can be found right in my Bible, where you spent much of your time and the rest of your time teaching us to do. I read my Bible today. The first time I’ve opened it to actually read for myself, not just during church services. I really had trouble with that, and I know I should have read a long time ago, but for some reason, every time I picked it up with the intention to read, that intention somehow got pushed to the wayside. However, I did it. I opened His holy, living word and read it. And do you want to know where? 2 Corinthians 7. Yep, where Paul is telling them how he’s glad they grieved for his pain. He says in verses 10, “for godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death.” I just thought this was amazing because my grief matches with this. My grief in your death is also one of repentance with the awakening of a new urgency to share the gospel. My grief is not of the world–a hopeless, despairing grief–rather one of hope and salvation that our hope rests upon. Yes, Paul does speak of a grief in the face of sin here, but the same applies for my grief in that I must not live as who I was, but continue to grow my faith, and my passion for Him and the mission on earth He has bequeathed to me as His disciple: to show His love to the world and the truth of salvation through Him. Paul goes on in verse 11 to describe the “earnestness this godly grief has produced” as well as the “eagerness to clear yourselves, what indignation, what fear, what longing, what zeal, what punishment!” He speaks of the same urgency that has entered my heart, an urgency that calls me to no longer bide my time, just living life,  but to be intentional! To live a life that speaks completely of Him and seeking out opportunities to directly share His love and truth with people–people who are just as lost as I once was.
It was so wonderful to read His word again. I think what kept me from doing so before was the thought that while I knew He could and would comfort me through His living word, I didn’t quite want the revaluation and conviction that often comes right alongside that comfort. I know, don’t run from God (we can just look at the story of Jonah to see that), but I didn’t exactly see it as running. I think I saw it as holding a rope connected to Him, and stretching it as far as it could go–I’d be back with Him eventually, but I wasn’t ready to take all that came with my relationship with Him (such as my very purpose of bringing glory to His name). Stupid decision. Because He still squeezed the use out of me, making use of the gifts He’s given me–encouragement, writing, talking (maybe that last one is a curse…haha)–even in the midst of my (technically) run away from His plan for me.
Mom, I miss actually talking out these things with you. Yes, I can find all the answers I need in His word. But sometimes I just want to hear your voice again. This weekend in getting together with a bunch of family, it was weird. There was a part missing. We managed, but your take-charge, generous heart was missed. Even the little things, like asking what time we were leaving, were different. You’re just really missed by all of us. I love you, mom!

Your daughter,
Hannah