Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

This is year is a transitional year — in more ways than one. But one in particular is the approach to April. The past four years — my college years — gave me much distraction as March entered the scene. First, Winter Quarter finals, then Spring Break when I would spend an invigorating but exhausting week at Beach Reach, then maybe a few days before beginning a whole new quarter, and finally beginning that Spring Quarter with a new schedule and new classmates and (often) new professors. So many wonderful distractions from the “lasts”. However, this year it’s the continuation of the same schedule: church, work, weekend, and repeat. (Not to mention all of the other mental and emotional effects of the past five years — and beyond — that I’ve been working through as of late.)

The joy of the Lord can never be fully understood until the great sorrows of this life are unleashed. I saw in you what it looked like to break and keep going, keep serving, keep loving, keep worshipping. (One of my favorite memories of you is that glance to my left during the offering song to see you stand with Dad, your left hand in his and your right extended gently but faithfully to the One you worship.) I’ve felt that ground zero, myself. Many times in the past five years, many times in the past five weeks. And every time, God is there. “Where can I go from [His] Spirit?” Nowhere. “If I go up to the Heavens, [He] is there. When I make my bed in Hell, He is here with me.” He has promised and He has delivered.

I’ve written in the months of March and April before. Often expressing the feelings of the moments as memories press upon my mind and heart a little harder than usual. But, there is a deeper undercurrent of anticipation that begins as soon as February fades into March. The final countdown until a new year begins. My own personal “New Year” — another year without you here to share in the new memories I’m making. It is the marker of the new cycle. It feels like an anchor unable to be loosed. Like this day that I can’t get rid of. No matter how far I run, how long I grieve, how fast I heal, how much I grow — there is always an April 29th.

I need an attitude adjustment, I think. A shift in my thinking. From viewing that date as an end to viewing it as the best kind of beginning. Perhaps this heightened awareness is only because I’ve just started to acknowledge the hurt of that month and not just the grief. For the first time grieving your absence for these milestones of my life just the month following your death. We didn’t have a family celebration of my eighteenth birthday. You missed my last choir concert. You didn’t see my shock and excitement in receiving the AP Literature award. You weren’t there to help me plan my graduation party. You’re not in any of the graduation photos — just Dad and me (and the rest of the family).

Yes, God moved and provided and comforted. But He can’t comfort where there isn’t hurt. And there was a lot. I just didn’t always admit to all of it. It felt safe to say “I miss you” — although, sometimes I even tried to dismiss those feelings — but to list the above hurts felt as though to make an ungrateful complaint. I mean, did I not see God’s hand at work that whole week leading up until even today? I did. But, I also experienced the consequences of sin in this world: separation and loss. I just spent so much time trying to be perfectly strong and good.

“My grace is sufficient for you. My strength is made perfect in weakness.”

Mom, this has been the prayer of my heart. To experience the sufficiency of His grace. To embrace my weakness so that His strength may be made perfect.

So, yeah — this is a new approach to April. It’s a slow march through the trenches. Fiery darts crossing from both sides. But this shield of faith will extinguish them. And my feet fitted with the peace that only comes with the Gospel will take one step at a time. There will be times of stumbling, times of steady marching, times of being lifted by a comrade, times of seeing the end ahead and times of fog hiding the light. But, the One for whom a thousand years is only a day is the One who goes before, behind, and beside me.

I miss you, Mom. I’m looking forward to my own Homecoming, but am content to keep going like you did. See you later.

Your daughter,
Hannah

Psalm 139
2 Corinthians 12:9
Ephesians 6:10-18