Life Without Mother

What do you do when dreams keep you from wanting to sleep? When all of the stressful thoughts from the night before merely transform themselves into the vivid almost-reality of dreams and the dreams just cycle from the least stressful to the most heart-wrenching pains of the soul? Well, that was just last night for me. How could that be? How could I, Hannah—the girl living it up in Germany, France, and Austria—have any cares in the world as I spend my summer away from everything and everyone (besides Katie who is definitely the best person with whom I could choose to spend a whole summer out of the country)?
Life without mother. What it really is like when your mom dies is life with the shadow of her. Not quite haunting in the normal sense of the word such as ghosts and horror stories. No, it’s more like anyone who still has their mother inadvertently is flaunting their mother. And I mean inadvertently as in, they are just living life like they normally do, and I can’t help but watch and wish I could do the same. Heck, I even get jealous of Hailey sometimes as she calls out, “Hey Mama,” and Katie replies, “Hey baby.”
Of course I love that others can do that and I love seeing kids loving on their moms and vice versa, but there’s still this ache inside that I’ll never get to do that again, not with my Mama.
Then God reminds me that He’s Father to the fatherless and mother to the motherless. He is all I need. He is my everything. Every night, when there are no more distractions to keep my mind from dwelling on the pain, all I can do is empty myself to God. At first this used to be hard, because I’ll be honest—I haven’t always been the best at just talking to God. However, this past year, in the quiet darkness of my dorm room I’ve learned the wonderful release of telling God how I feel. And I don’t mean just in my mind. That was what was hard about sharing it with God: saying, “God, I hurt. I feel selfish, but I just want my Mom. Please help me. I don’t even know what else to pray. Just help. Please.” There were many nights of that broken, simple prayer that was forced out with a shaky voice. What made vocalizing my thoughts so vital was that each time the words were spoken, I felt a little more peace inside, like a bit of my burden was lifted with each admission of what I felt. “Cast all your cares upon Him for He cares for you.”* So simple and yet so hard to do. Because to give them to Him is not just letting them go, but to admit that the cares and hurts and problems are there in the first place. To say, “God I miss Mom,” means to admit that I’m not done grieving; and there’s a part of me that at first didn’t want to admit my continued grief, thinking that if I’m still grieving, if I still miss her, if I still cry, then I’m not strong or I don’t have faith. Which of course are lies from the devil because how many times does the Psalmist cry out to God in distress and yet praises God for His deliverance? I wouldn’t recognize His deliverance if I didn’t recognize my need for a Deliverer. And so even as the ache never leaves my heart, each sting reminds me of my Father’s love and provision and sovereignty and I rejoice that I am a daughter of the King!

*1 Peter 5:7