Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

Dad texted me this evening to let me know he was able to change your tombstone. He hadn’t signed the approval or something so they hadn’t cut it yet, that’s why your grave has only been marked by the dirt and mulch above it since we buried your body. But it’s a fortunate thing he neglected the approval because we originally had designed a pair tombstone with your name and Dad’s on it. Now with the whole marriage thing coming up in June, you can see why we felt it was better to change it to just your name. Honestly I’m glad. It’s hard to explain but I think the main reason is because if I visit, I’m just visiting you, so Dad’s name would have just distracted or something to that effect–does that make sense? I don’t know. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. And it’s not like he’s married to you anymore (not that he doesn’t still miss you and love you, but the Bible is clear on that aspect in Matthew 22).
Anyway, I can’t wait for your tombstone to be placed. I feel like it might help my peace of mind. Then we’ll see your name next to Annette’s. What was it like seeing her again? I know she was waiting alongside everyone else there at the gates. Do you get to talk to people and hear their stories? Or does all knowledge come with the new bodies in the presence of God? Some of the times of feel closest to you are when I’m worshiping at church. As the Angels join our praises and I imagine you kneeling at His feet, singing unending songs of praise just as you taught me to do. You always said how much you loved our singing throughout the house and everywhere. How could we not when you were the one who always woke us up as babes with “Good morning to you…” and “This is the day that the Lord has made…”
And my special favorite you sang to me: “You are my Sunshine”. I was your Sunshine. My nickname since birth. I used to not feel particularly attached to that nickname because I didn’t understand the significance of it. Now I do. I was your Sunshine, your Sunshine after one of the, if not the, darkest times in your life. God gave me to you as a second chance to love your own little girl again. Except He gave you an entirely different little girl with blonde hair (or really no hair at first) and blue eyes. I think that’s why I look so different from the others–God didn’t want you to have as hard of a time not comparing me to what you’d lost, while still allowing you to have another girl.
I’m so glad He gave me to you. I couldn’t have asked for a better mom. Even if we didn’t always agree and you had your rough patches that I just didn’t understand at the time, I loved you so much. So many people say I’m just like you and it thrills me because I want to be just like you–to pursue the Lord like you did, to love others with my whole heart like you did, to shine with the radiance of Christ wherever I go like you did and even still do after you left this earth. Your legacy continues in the hearts of all who knew you and we all really miss you, Mom.
Mom. Mother. Mama. Mommy. Each conveyed to you how I was feeling depending on the one I used. “Mom” meant I was fine, the usual way I got your attention. “Mother” was usually when I was exasperated because you weren’t paying attention or if I was being silly (depending on tone). “Mama” was a quick, affectionate response or if I needed something…
“Mommy” always brought back my babyhood, the times when you were my mommy and the only one I was truly comfortable. That’s the name that I most often think in my mind. I feel like a child when I remember and cry. I feel like a three year old just wanting to be held by her mother. Like a five year old unable to see her mommy at the playground because she went down a slide on the opposite side of the bench her mother sat and watched from.
Well, this letter’s become a bit long-winded and covered a variety of topics so I’ll wrap it up. I love you, Mommy. I miss you.

Your daughter,
Hannah