Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

I’m compelled to write a letter. Really just for the sentimentality of this processing. Because this week I’ve gone back. Back to my furthest memories, to the ones between babyhood and childhood, on to those elementary years, then middle school, and — finally — high school. But, these memories were not of you. They were of the many people whose lives I’ve passed through. As though they were merely stops on my own journey. This week, even without seeing them face-to-face, they have once again impacted my life.

I’m going through my old things, Mom. While at Dad’s for an extended trip, I felt the need to downsize the amount of boxes. Going through all of the “keepsakes” you and I kept, unused clothing, and books. (Unfortunately, due to my love for rereading, the obscene number of boxes containing books alone will not decrease much, if at all.) I’ve just realized that as wonderful as mementos are, they take up space and concern where the memories themselves do not. And those memories are as vibrant today as they ever were.

Thus, I have been working my way through the boxes. Taking out the papers and certificates, the dolls and figurines, the photographs and yearbooks, the journals and hand-made jewelry. One by one remembering. To be honest, for some of the things I don’t have a ready memory. Those are the easiest to let go, to toss in the trash or “give-away” piles. Then, there are the continued-keepers. Like my yearbooks.

Mom, the yearbooks have been some of the toughest to work through. Because I wanted to take the time to read them. Not every page, but particularly the signings of my classmates and friends and teachers over the years. And, wow. The emotions. Of course, I did have to occasionally look up the picture of a signer, but as soon as I connected faces with names, those memories came flooding back with a smile.

It’s interesting to realize how different we often perceive ourselves to be compared to what others see. I was struck by the kindness of my peers who often wrote of my being “funny” or “sweet” or “smart” or “authentic” when I definitely didn’t think I was all that entertaining or even particularly nice for many of those years. Then there were the specific notes of inside jokes from classes. With almost every one of those I chuckled as I remembered exactly what they referenced. So many laughs and good times.

The truth is that after you died, I ran from those memories. My mind and heart were overcome with trying to remember you. It was like my life outside of home and time with you dimmed in my focus on not forgetting you. I nearly forgot everything else. No, not everything — everyone else. The many sweet friends and lives who touched me through my years in school. I left them behind, even while I tried not to leave you behind.

As soon as I graduated high school, it was on to the next thing, and the next, and the next, until college. Then all the college things. Louisiana became my home. Texas just a place to visit. Always away for the summer. Then college graduation and on to my new home: New York City. Surrounded by the newness and muchness of 2020, a new job, a new city, a new church, a new life — straining to keep you with me through it all. No time to remember anyone else not included with daily life.

This past week, I’ve paused. Every night, I’ve spent hours looking into the past. It’s remarkable to me how in those schooldays, I’d have a class (or multiple) with the same person for a year. They would sign my yearbook with an expression of hope to continue this friendship, and then in the next year, without that same class to bond over, we moved on to other friendships. Bonding over the struggles and joys of class. Then doing the same thing with new people the next year. (It was practice, I think, for the changing seasons of friendship in life on a larger scale. We move from place to place with new people who come into and then must exit our lives.) There are of course the few who stuck through the years of school, or reconnected after many years of separation with that one final class. (And the same could be said for life in general.)

All this sentiment to say, I don’t regret the friendships of that season, or that they remained only for that season. Rather, I’m grateful for the evidence of their reality. That those friendships existed. That those wonderful people from my schooldays existed. Each one made our school experience what it was with all of the shared ups and downs.

My life in school was good. Not always filled with the consistent deep friendship I craved, that the LORD has provided in abundance through the friends of my adulthood. But, filled with the needed friendships to teach me kindness, intentionality, grace, humility, laughter, how to be challenged, the importance of knowing people, not just seeing them.

I do not desire to go back to high school as though it were the best time of my life. Because, by the LORD’s grace, I know the best is yet to come. BUT, if I were to go back, it would be to steal the microphone at our graduation and pour out my thanks and love for my peers. We all had our rough spots — none of us were perfect by any means — but each of us were on our collective journey together for that time. I pray each one well in their journeys. How I’d love to have a coffee chat with each one of them. See how they have continued along their path of life. Of growth and struggles, of joys and pains. To share all that can happen in just seven years. To better know them as their own being and not simply in relation to a mutual class subject.

Mom, even as I remember, I’m letting go. There’s a sense of closure here. Though I’ve still been missing you a lot lately, I feel I’ve been able to finally (at least start to) say good-bye to my childhood. To realize it for all that it was — that I wasn’t as alone in many ways as I felt. That there are hundreds of amazing people in this world I had the privilege to know for even such a brief time — people who have helped me become the person I am today. To sit in the memories for a moment of that awkward nerdy girl who loved literature and music and Jesus and didn’t always know how to talk to people — okay, was scared to death of talking to people. To mourn the friendships I did miss out on in my immaturity, and celebrate the grace of the LORD in the many friendships I did have.

There’s a hope in me through this. A hope of release. That perhaps my grief for your absence will not cut so deep. That I will not feel stuck in my childhood. In my memories.

Honestly, I’m not sure how to end this letter. I do miss you, Mom. Some days more than others. Sometimes it aches just because I feel I wouldn’t need all this closure if you were still here. Wouldn’t feel like I was constantly having to say “good-bye” in my life. The LORD has allowed our family to suffer much loss — like many others — and has never left us. That’s the greatest hope I have: the knowledge that I never have to say “good-bye” to our LORD. His presence is His forever promise and His promise of forever.

Merry Heavenly Christmas, Mom.

Your daughter,
Hannah