Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

We are reaching the end of our annual ski (snowboard for me) trip. Tomorrow’s our last day to go up to the mountain before we leave Friday for home. It’s been a fun trip. Of course it has been different than the last—well, all of the trips before. But it hasn’t been all bad. Just different.
Dad and Mrs. Rhonda went out tonight so us kids were left alone. We watched “Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe”. It’s kind of cool how things that totally went over our heads as children make sense as we understand the symbolism now that we’re older. That movie always brings back that yearning I have for fantasy and building a world of my own.
I remember how back when “Prince Caspian” came out I was so obsessed with the series as I had also finished reading all seven books that I couldn’t even concentrate in church one Sunday. I felt so guilty because even during the worship, every song would remind me of something to do with the story and whoop—there goes my imagination again. Do you remember? I told you after the second song and you merely smiled at me and said, “it’s okay, just do the best you can.” And with your words, the guilt decreased, lessening the pressure of the invading thoughts through my mind. Your encouragement of my love for books and the use of my imagination even then has carried me through the years of wanting to give up on writing.
The only problem was that my imagination does get the best of me sometimes and I lose track of reality. My faith has been what’s kept me grounded in the reality of this world. Otherwise I would have just ignored it and lost myself in the happy fantasy of my mind where adventures are everyday and mythical creatures roam and heroes best the villain once and for all.
Yet now my faith has not held back the imagination lately as I’ve struggled with you being gone. That slight grasp on reality hits and reminds me that you’re not coming back. And each time it reminds me that while you’re alive in my memories, you’re no longer here. Sometimes it’s almost hard to remember you here at all. Were you just a figment of my imagination? Obviously not because I’m here for one thing, besides photos and videos. But there’s just that concept of remembering versus imagining that wars within my mind. Those moments before reality hits, it’s like I want to beg God to end this game. It’s not fun anymore. I quit. I just want you back. I want things the way they were. I want to stop having to imagine a future without you there to watch me and smile and say, “it’s okay, just do the best you can.”
It’s like there’s this part of me that won’t believe you’re gone—it’s not that it can not, but that it will not. And then reality hits and it sucks the air from my lungs, stabs my heart with the same pain I should have felt months ago.
That’s really hard. Looking back to the day you died. And then the visitation. And then the funeral. And then the burial. Yes, I cried a little at the hospital and at the funeral home after everyone left. But the other times. I smiled and it was all like a game. Like can I get through this without falling apart. Sure, nothing to it! And I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to cry the whole time, but why did I feel like I had to keep it together for everyone?
No matter how many times I tell myself I don’t have to (besides the times others tell me the same) my first instinct is to be strong. Don’t fall apart. Set an example. You can’t cry until you’re alone. You can’t feel, you just have to push through things. Then you’ll get a break later. But not now.
Yet that “break” never comes. Time never stops. I’m so tired of holding it together. And yet the times I do fall apart don’t relieve that ache and pain within. Almost every time I call my best friend—my wonderful, patient sister—I end up falling apart on the phone and it’s still not enough! But will I ever relieve this hurt?
I’m so negative all the time nowadays. Where did your little Sunshine go? I miss her. And yet all I want is the rain. I want the storms. I want the booming thunder, the flashing lightning, the roaring winds. Inside this storm rages while outside is the look of a weary traveler.
I want to find my genuine joy again. And yet I fear it. I admit it. I fear moving on. I fear leaving you behind. Letting you go. Fear has taken hold of my heart where pain has reigned. The only thing holding my sanity is my lifeline: Jesus. He is the only One I can hold on too at all times. And it’s a battle just to keep holding on. Maybe someday (perhaps, hopefully, soon) I can let go of the fear and let go of you. But for now, I’ve just got to keep holding on to Jesus.

Your daughter,
Hannah