Dear Mom,
I just got off the phone with a dear friend tonight. One who has been on the receiving end of countless calls since you died. Enough so that even as we hadn’t spoken in a while and I tried to keep the rasp from my voice, she answered with, “What’s wrong?”
This week some sad hit. And this evening, it hit a bit harder. Nearly took me out, to be honest. And one of the most comforting things from that call came from the history of this friend. That she’d been there since day one. That first night when I called and asked if she would just stay on the phone with me until I fell asleep. And she did.
Now we’re both nearly eight years older. Over ten years of friendship. And, ironically, it all actually started here in NYC. But, here we are and when the grief hits deep, she’s there. She’s known me long enough to have heard the “same conversations I’ve had over and over” (my words) and truly understand the frustration in my voice (especially since she was on the receiving end of half of them). “That’s totally normal.”
Thank the LORD, it really is. Because I’ve read the same conversations in His word. In Psalms. In Job. In 1 Corinthians. The request for the thorn to be removed. For understanding in the incomprehensible. For refuge when “darkness is my closest friend.”1 What a relief to know these cycles of happiness into moments when I feel I have no breath left do not change the nature or presence of my GOD.
Mom, I miss you. A lot. So much that I was practicing our set list for Sunday’s worship earlier and couldn’t get through the songs a second time. It’s not even that I really feel I need to talk to you or wish I could have some advice. I just miss your presence. I miss the opportunity to ask you questions just to hear your perspective on things. I miss your joy at our excitement over something.
I’m writing to say that I forgot the wisdom of that first year of grief, as I wrote back then: that some days (and weeks, and even months sometimes) will be happy, and then some days will be really sad. Maybe just an evening or two. And those sad days may really just feel as though I’m that 18-year-old girl who was trying to take one step at a time, making the best of a life-changing situation, and trying not to constantly break down and cry.
If I could say one regret I have, it’s not something I would have said to you, Mom. It’s that I didn’t cry more. I didn’t cry with people. Those first two weeks. I held it in until the night. I did cry a little, here and there. But, I had school, church, work, summer things. So many distractions.
Death. Can we just sit in that reality for a moment? The fact is, though we “don’t grieve as those without hope,” we still grieve.2 What are we grieving? The loss of someone’s presence. Of normalcy. Of even a small sense of security. It’s a bit rattling to realize the full truth behind “you do not know what tomorrow may bring.”3 Not that death is all this particular passage refers to, but it is probably one of the most apt examples to apply. There’s no way to “rectify” death. It’s permanent (this side of Heaven, at least). We must simply learn to live with it. It means sadness on some days.
Yet, tomorrow may bring happiness. I do hope it does. I think it will. It usually happens that way.
But, before I go, know that even in death, you are real to me, Mom. Because in your death, I have stepped ever deeper into the Life and Light of the world. Just like you would have wanted.
Your daughter,
Hannah
Life Without Mother 
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