“I feel closer to Mom as I always have the spirit of her memory with me — not in some ghostly way, but it is within my own mind. And it’s particular to the whims of my own moods and fancy.”
~March 16th, 2024
Words from my journal today. Perhaps these words out of context are confusing, yet I think those who know the humor of grief will understand. No, I do not mean morbid jokes, rather the way that grief seems to enjoy sticking his hand into every struggle, whether or not it is directly related. In this case, my terrible case of disconnectedness.
Oh, don’t worry about me — these cases tend to pass with a daily dose of scripture and prayer with an exercise of sociality or two. But, grief loves to put in his two cents. To give his opinion on a matter that does not concern him.
Dealing with anxiety? Oh, yeah, don’t forget that everything in this life is temporal.
Dealing with anger? Be sure to remember that you’re justified in being bitter — you for sure didn’t have a say in this extreme dent in your future plans.
Got some depression keeping you down? Girl, have we got all the best deals on despair in “if only’s” and impossible wishes.
Loneliness? Say no more.
Grief — even with the hope of “here, not yet” that I have in Christ — loves to convince me that “here” is all I have.
In the past seven (nearly eight) years, grief and I have become better acquainted. We’ve come to understandings. Boundaries have been put in place with the Truth of His Word. Because, grief does have helpful and true commentary to add to my life. But, every now and then, grief’s half-truths can be quite convincing.
In this particular case of journaling, I reflected on the nature of my memory of Mom. Because in a full 18 years (exactly) spent with her, there’s much truth from which to remember. And that is what I must cling to. Even so, seven — nearly eight — years contain many new experiences with no “true” memories of Mom. My overactive imagination, as even she used to say, both comforts and confuses. For example: the truth is that during the year before her death, we were building the foundation for a solid friendship as I entered young womanhood. The imagining enters during the moments of fresh success or sorrow, or of complete boredom, when I imagine she would have been the first call. Would she? That, by God’s will, I am not to ever know.
My imagining has brought Mom closer in this way. In my imagining she always answers. She is always excited to hear from me. She’s always ready to listen to my many ramblings and get excited over what God is teaching me at every turn — and the frustrations over not always doing well in the discipline of obedience. She’s telling me all of the news of home and family, and perhaps even planning her next trip to visit me here in New York. She’s asking after my friends — the ones from home, from college, from the city. Yet, one thing I’m honestly unsure of is whether she would be that “Southern Mom” (all love and respect to those Southern Moms out there) who asks each call — or at least once a week — if there are any new men in my life. I don’t think she would — she never seemed all that interested if I ever was brave enough to mention a crush — but perhaps as I got older that would have changed.
(In that line of thought, there are things I simply don’t know how to imagine, because we never talked about it. There’s no precedent in true memory to inform the imagined. I try not to think about such instances too often though.)
Scripture says that “the Truth will set us free” and the truth — to not take that passage out of context — is Jesus. He, through His word, anchors my soul in the reality of “here, but not yet” as I wait on Him. He has used this deeper relationship with grief to better understand His heart. And the vast depths of His word. Not to mention His outward gaze upon His creation. I understand with far greater depth what Paul said in Romans 8, that “the whole of creation has been groaning” and that “we also groan inwardly as we wait eagerly”. Though, to be sure, the last part of that passage the LORD continues to work in me: “But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.”
With all hope, and ever-increasing patience by God’s grace, Hannah
Life Without Mother 
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