A Letter to My Mother

Today (May 4) marks the 10-year anniversary of when my mother lost her battle with a brain tumor and passed away. But 'lost' really isn't the right word. For my mother, a woman of great, great faith, who seemed to have a direct line to God, she would say she won. She believed, as I do, that our last breath on Earth is immediately followed by our first breath in Heaven. In fact, in a letter she wrote to her family, ironically written one full year before her diagnosis, to be read after she passed away, she said "Do not weep for me. I am more alive now than I have ever been."

I have no doubt that she is.

But, the peace of where she is does not ease the loss of her not being here. Not one day has gone by in the past 10 years where I haven't mourned her loss again. Not one. Sometimes it's more like a dull ache, and sometimes it feels much deeper.

While there is much that I miss about her, my biggest heartache is that she didn't get to meet my amazing husband, and she didn't get to see my sweet son, who would undoubtedly have captured her heart. She loved my nephew Hunter with such a fierce passion and intensity, and it pains me that Reagan will never experience that.

Still, I believe the veil between here and there is very, very thin, and I believe -- I choose to believe -- that she gets glimpses of our lives. While I know our richest moments here are pale in comparison to any moments on the other side, deep in my heart I know she sees at least some of what we experience.

I can't pick up the phone and call her anymore, like I used to do multiple times a day. I can't send her an e-mail or a card or sit at her kitchen table or take her out to lunch (where she'd insist on picking up the tab anyway). But I can write to her. And so, to commemorate the day that was at once my worst and her best, I offer a letter that I hope in some way finds itself to her.

Dear Mom,

Happy 10th anniversary! I know time doesn't exist in Heaven, at least not like it does here, but for us, it feels like a big day.

I miss you. That is an understatement, but suffice it to say, I miss you. A lot. But I have no doubt that you are in a much, much better place, and I know our separation, while excruciating for me at times, is temporary.

You would love my husband, Johnny, and my son, Reagan. You'd love both of them, so much. Johnny because he takes care of me so well. He does a lot of the housework, he makes my coffee and breakfast every morning, and he supports my dreams and passions. We share a love of a lot of things, including road trips, good desserts and cooking. His culinary skills are pretty impressive. We have many things from your kitchen, and I always smile when I see him using something that your hands once touched. Those pots and pans could tell a lot of stories.

You would be completely enamored by Reagan, without question. He's two now, and such a joy. Even when he's fussy (which is very, very rare), he's cute. And when he knows he has done something wrong, he is quick to say "sorry," often without any prompting from me. He has a very tender heart, and likes to pray to Jesus -- sometimes multiple times while we're eating. For a long time, he looked almost exactly like my baby pictures, but now he's starting to look more like a mix of both of his parents.

I'm so proud to be his Mommy, but it is frustrating to me that I have to do it without you. I always imagined you would help guide me through the process, from his frustrating colic soon after he was born (I remember you telling me I was very colicky, so maybe it's payback), to teething and potty-training, and on and on. When he does something cute, like tries to 'hide' while saying 'Hi Mom! Hi Mom!' when I pretend to be looking for him, or when he talks to himself in his crib when he's supposed to be sleeping (and then makes himself giggle), I wish every single time that I could pick up the phone and call you to tell you about it.

I have no doubt you already also love our new daughter, even though we haven't met her yet. We are, of course, very anxious to bring her into our home, but I keep reminding myself that God's timing isn't ours.

You already have two grandchildren in Heaven -- children we weren't given the privilege of meeting here on Earth. I'm sure you're loving on them, and it comforts me to envision all of you playing together.

I have to confess that we didn't listen to a couple of the requests you wrote in your letter for your funeral. We did use the music you requested, and Pastor Alvin talked about the topics you wanted covered in his message, but we did have a public viewing, and while you wanted it to be a celebration of life -- and in many ways it was -- there were a lot of sad people there that day. Sad because you left such a mark on so many people, and they grieved that they wouldn't have the chance again to sit with you, talk with you, spend time with you. People came from all over to pay their final respects. You would have been embarrassed by all of the attention. Everyone from childhood friends to recent friends, plus so many people who were friends of Dawn and I and knew how much our hearts were hurting, showed up to pay tribute to your extraordinary life.

Per your wishes, we did not purchase an expensive casket that, as you said in your letter, "would just rot in the ground." But I did not sing at your funeral. Dawn and I both spoke, but the idea that I could actually sing at your funeral was, well, a bit beyond my abilities that day. All in all, though, I think you would have been pleased with how your life was honored.

We buried you the day before Mother's Day. For many years, that day was the worst day of the year for me. Now that I have a son, it is a bit better, but truth be told, I'm always glad when the day ends. While it's a reminder of what I have, it's also a reminder of what I've lost.

No one will ever replace you. No one. But regardless of how old you are in life, you still need a mother, and a few woman have stepped in, in some form or capacity, to try to fill that hole in my life. Of course, your sister Millie is at the top of the list. She has endured so much sorrow, including losing her own son Dwayne to cancer only 17 months after your passing, but she is always willing to talk when I need to, and she dotes on Reagan whenever we are home in PA.

So many other women, too many to mention, have stepped in on your behalf. And they've done a great job. But while I'm so very, very grateful for each of them, they will never replace you. They could never replace you.

The day before you passed away, you couldn't talk because of the tube down your throat, but you could nod and shake your head. I asked you if I would be ok without you. You smiled, nodded, and squeezed my hand.

The truth is, you were right, and you were wrong. Life goes on, and I'm truly happier than I've ever been. Life feels so sweet and rich, and I marvel sometimes at how well my life has turned out.

But I'm never going to be really ok without you. I will always miss you. I will always wish for one more day with you. I will always wish things had turned out differently. I will always miss your cards, your phone calls, those long talks at the kitchen table, your amazing food and a thousand other things. There's an ache in my heart that never completely goes away. Sometimes I can think about you and smile, and even laugh as I recount things that seem funny now -- like how you always took the smallest piece of pie so there would be more for other people, or reusing something over and over again to not waste money -- but sometimes, unexpectedly, I still feel a wave of sadness over your absence.

I try, and I will always try, to honor your life by living life well. If I can become even half of the woman, wife and mother that you were, I will count my life a success.

I love you, Mom. See you on the other side.

P.S. Say hi to my babies for me.