Eighteen years ago today. About this time of the morning. I left Mama's room at the hospital just down the road from here. I had spent the night - awake for most of it just listening to her breathe. Daddy and my big brother came in to relieve me. Daddy, freshly showered and shaved and dressed in a sport coat. You never knew who you might see in the hospital. I headed home to rest in the room a few steps from me right now. And a couple of hours later, we got the word that she was gone. There were complications, you see, with her cancer. Isn't cancer always complicated?
By the time I got back to the hospital, one of Daddy's dearest friends had arrived from Winston-Salem. His own dear wife, Mama's best friend, recently departed, too. He came to sit with Daddy. To spend those early grief-hours together not unlike so many joy-hours the four of them had spent. They were easy with one another. And it was peaceful. I, too, had a dear friend who arrived in time to walk with me down the hall and out the door - away from Mama. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. To walk away.
But she had suffered. And she knew that more intervention would not make it better. She was ready. In the days leading up to November 28th, she told us that she didn't want to have any more surgery. She said that dying is not so bad. It's just a part of life. She told me that she wanted to go home. A nurse heard and asked me if we wanted to try and take her home. Mama rolled her head toward the nurse and gave an exasperated sigh. Heavenly home, she said. The nurse quietly left the room. I prayed. God, heal her or take her. Mama used to say that God answers every prayer for healing. Sometimes he does it with medicine, sometimes he does it with miracles - and sometimes he does it with death. Mama knew she was going to be healed permanently when she got home. And so she is.
After her death, well-meaning people would tell my Daddy they were sorry for his loss. He would reply, "Oh, she's not lost... I know right where she is." She is with her Lord. But she is still with me, too. Her beloved white brocade slipper chairs are within my sight at this very moment (upholstered in floral linen now). Some of her favorite books are on the shelf just above my head. Her iron skillet sits on my stove ready for the next sizzling rectangles of Neese's sausage. Closer still, my hands. Clacking out love and grief from this keyboard. I have my Mama's hands. I wear her wedding band next to my own. My eyes, too, are hers. Blue and leaky. And, once in a great while, from somewhere deep inside me, comes Mama's unique throaty chuckle. She is not lost. I know right where she is.
I also have her words. She was so good about sending little handwritten notes all along. They were never long but arrived regularly. For some reason, I would tuck them into a book or drawer after reading. Thank God I did that. For over the years I have found so many of them - often bearing words I really needed to hear. Just last week I found a postcard she sent during my freshman year at Meredith:
Hi Dear. Thinking about you and praying for you standing in line. Also about your books.
I am sure you will have all you need today because I ask God for this.
See you soon. I love you. Mother.
I am freezing soup today.
Today marks my eighteenth year of being a motherless child. After all this time it is still gut-wrenching. I miss her every day. I cannot count the times I have picked up the phone to call her. As recently as last week. I wish she could see the men my boys have become. I wish she could know their three little girls - one of whom bears her name - all of whom carry her blood and blessing. I wish she could be here to hold the new baby boy soon to arrive. Gran was the name the boys called her and it is now the name their children call me. It is a beautiful mantle about my shoulders. She is not lost. I know right where she is.
Holidays are especially hard. Emotional minefields everywhere. There were empty chairs at Thanksgiving last week. There will be unopened gifts at Christmas. I have read so many heart-felt posts - raw and fresh grief, old and mellow grief - poured out on the Facebook. And written on stricken bewildered faces. What do we left-behind-ones do with this? God once told Abraham, "I will bless you and you will be a blessing." Mama was my blessing. And now it's my turn to be a blessing. It's the best thing I can do to honor her. I will do my best. She he is not lost. I know right where she is.
Who is your blessing? Who are you now to bless? It's the best any of us can do. Selah.
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