Birthdays, 2020

 

Dear UD,

I find myself nostalgic for so many things lately. Birthday celebrations with you and mom and dad, parties with all of our extended families together, conversations on the phone with you and Mom, having my daughters living in my home, hosting exchange students, even life before smart phones or cell phones, and definitely life before the pandemic.

The world is so different this year of 2020. It’s riddled with pandemics, viruses, quarantines, political circus acts, videos of racism and police brutality, black lives matter protests, online-only education, unemployment, foreclosures of both homes and businesses, superstorms, civil unrest, tweets of utter stupidity, and so much more. We moved from reading dystopian literature to living dystopian life, yet what overshadows this year for me is that Mom’s not here to celebrate our birthdays together this year. It’s not right, UD, and it’s not okay. But it is what is. 

Mom was 20 years old when I was born, and I remember the last time we celebrated our birthdays in person together. In 2016, she turned 66 in August, so of course I turned 46 that November. At the time, I had just moved back to Missouri for the fall semester and was renting a house in Houston, so I hosted a family birthday party for mom. She was so happy because everyone came, and that’s all that mattered to her—time with those she loved.

Per typical celebrations in our family, we had tons of homemade food, presents, a homemade cake, and even BYOC, also known as “bring your own candle” (thanks to Sonny) for the birthday cake. And tons of people and craziness, but I remember Mom being so happy, and we took lots of photos.

Sam and Serena hosted my birthday party that November. Again, Mom was so happy to be celebrating my birthday with me in person.

It’s unfathomable that we lost her just a couple of years after that and that we’ll never celebrate a birthday together again.

Uncle David, I don’t have a strong ending, a life lesson, or a conclusion. I just miss you, miss mom and wish you were both here. Today, I’m doing things to honor and celebrate her—breakfast and conversation with Alaina (Granny loved her grandkids and spending time with them and was so proud of them), homemade chicken-veggie soup for lunch (Mom loved making soup and sharing food with her family and friends), pool time this afternoon (she was a lifeguard as a teen and loved swimming her whole life), Chinese takeout for dinner (not only did she love eating Chinese food, but it was the last meal we shared at a restaurant with her—all ten of her children and almost 30 of her grandchildren were there, so the restaurant had to push together a long row of tables so that we could all eat at the same “table”), and movie night with a friend (watching one of Mom’s favorite movies).

Happy 70^th birthday, Mom. You are missed; you are loved.

UD, we wish you and Mom were here right now, but as you and mom taught us, we will honor and remember our ancestry, our loved ones, our lessons learned. And we will celebrate birthdays and loved ones, both keeping close old memories and continuing to make new ones.

Love,

Rach 

Big Piney River

            Today, I hiked along the Big Piney River and up the hill at Simmons Baptist Camp in Houston, Missouri with my Italian exchange student, two nephews, and a niece. We explored the river, forests, and cliffs during our forty-five-minute walk, and I skipped rocks and even found one rock with a hole all the way through it like Mom always looked for when at the river.

The 2019 Christmas holiday season was our first one without Mom, which was difficult to say the least; however, it helped to celebrate it with family. Furthermore, I was dreading entering the New Year because it is the first one we are starting without Mom in it. But here it is. For reasons that I will write about in a future post, I am choosing to focus on Gratitude this year.

Today, I am grateful for time with my family in Missouri during the holiday season and especially for everyone who opened their home to me during my stay. In the past, I always set up camp at Mom’s house, so it was different this time. And, I am thankful for the fifty-degree weather and sunshine this afternoon as well as the beauty of nature in the Missouri Ozarks. I love taking walks here year-round, and when near a river, I always end up wading, no matter the weather. Finally, I am so grateful for finding the rock with a hole because it reminds me of Mom and how she lives on in all of us.

Happy New Year!

Of March and Memories

Dear UD,

First dad, then you, and now Mom. Gone. All within a few years. We lost you all too soon, too young, too quickly, and I can hardly stand it.

I didn't want to write you again because it makes it more real that mom's gone. When we lost you four years ago, I wrote about feeling “unmoored,” like I’d lost a rare safe haven in this turbulent world.  And now that we’ve lost mom too, I feel like I’ve lost my touchstone. Talisman. The saying that we don’t know what we’ve got until we’ve lost it is so true. You helped us process everything that life throws at us, and we felt wanted, loved, safe in this world. Mom prayed for us and guided us as we turned to her to measure everything in us, everything in this world. With a million little things throughout our life, every day, in every way, she helped us, and we felt wanted, loved, safe in this world. The matriarch of our family is now gone, and I don’t know how to feel safe in this world anymore.

Orphaned. On the way to your funeral, I rode with Mom and Sonny, and I remember him telling the story about how, at your dad’s funeral, you repeatedly cried, “We’re orphans now. We’re orphans now. We’re orphans now.” I remember that day and how you wept unashamed in front of all of us. At the time, I had no idea how you felt. Now I do. Orphaned. There are no words to describe it. Losing that sense of knowing and being known completely by someone who's known you from birth. Looking at the preceding generation, at the place your parents occupied, and seeing it empty. There are no words for such loss.

No wonder I’ve been plagued with anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, and sleeplessness since losing Mom.

After I wrote the first part of this letter, I discovered this quote:

“A person who has the habit of hope also has the habit of remembering. Hope needs memories the way a writer needs notes. This is partly because hope depends so much on imagination. Our images of the future are sweepings from our remembrances of things past. If we expect to keep hope alive, we need to keep memory alive. Happy memories of good things we hoped for that were fulfilled, and grateful memories of bad things we survived.” Lewis B. Smedes, Keeping Hope Alive

I found the quote in my new Jeremiah Study Bible, the last gift Mom gave me. Last December when I stayed with her, she said that she wanted me to have a good study Bible, and we picked this one out together. During that month, I made many new memories with her, some happy memories and others difficult ones because it was so terrible to see her struggle, to watch her body betray her as the aggressive cancer advanced. But one memory that is both happy and difficult (happy because I shared it with her, tough because of the reason that I needed to read to her) is of me reading Psalms to her one Sunday morning. Normally, faithfully, she went to church every Sunday; however, by then, she had no energy and too much pain. Also, she read the Bible daily and was in the process of reading through Proverbs and Psalms in a month; however, she could hardly keep her eyes open on that morning, so on December 23, I read Proverbs 23, Psalms 23, 53, 83, 113, and 143 to her. Then, we sang several hymns and prayed together. I am grateful for moments like that, for so many memories and conversations.

But this week as I struggled through the grief of missing Mom and the sorrow of missing you, I read that quote and Psalms 63.

When I remember You on my bed, I mediate on You in the night watches. Because You have been my help, therefore in the shadow of Your wings will I rejoice. My soul follows close behind You; Your right hand upholds me. Psalms: 63 6-8

I was reminded to remember those moments, to celebrate the love shared, and to find hope in those memories, that love, and in God. Hope that God is with me right now, hope that He is with me when I’m tossing and turning in bed at night, and hope that we will all be together again in heaven one day.

UD, it's your birthday month and Dad's, and I would give anything if we could all meet again at your place for cake, cards, celebration with the family. But all we can do is remember you, remember Dad, remember Mom, remember those we lost too soon. I imagine you all together in heaven, celebrating your birthdays, watching over us. I raise a toast to you today, and I want you all to know what you meant to us, to me. How you shaped our lives, how much we miss you, how we love you so.

Love, Rach

March Birthdays, Take Two

Dear UD,

Today, I have no words.

Today, you would have been 62.

Today, a year ago, we celebrated your 61^st birthday all weekend at your place, another family celebration filled with kids playing ball outside (and Little and Aiden jumping cliff to cliff, flying over open space), dogs romping around (except poor O. B. who shadowed your every move, sitting between your feet at every chance), and cousins/siblings/aunts/uncles all playing various games of Scrabble, Bridge, and the new Dragon Joust card game that you created. And you, cooking, grilling, making special meals for all of us even though you were the honored birthday boy. 

Sonny, Mom, and I stayed up until midnight on the night before, playing Bridge with you to ring in the first moments of your birthday. We saluted your birthday, and you jumped to Three No Trump, like always, winning the rubber.

We sang Happy Birthday (something you did for every single one of us on every birthday through a phone call), ate cake, and watched you open presents. Last year, mostly, you received cards, as you requested, where we told you how much you meant to us.

Did you know then, somewhere hidden inside, that it was your last birthday?

Did you know, in a way that we did not until after, how deeply you impacted our lives on so many levels? How very much we loved you? How special you were?

Even as we brought you presents, you gifted us with everything you had, with everything you were. 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. ~Hamlet (1.5.167-8)

Today, a song comes on the radio, and the lyrics slay me. No longer are you “only one call away.” No longer are you “there to save the day.” No longer can your siblings or 17 nieces and nephews or 30 plus great-nieces and nephews call to share news, get advice, wish you Happy Birthday.

Today, we vote in the primaries, trying to pick the best of the worst, without a viable option. I imagine what you would say and wish we could talk about it.

I’ve heard some people laugh at the idea of Trump, saying he wouldn’t have the power to do anything if elected. I’ve heard others say that Trump is a refreshing choice, someone to bring new life to the political hypocrisy and depravity of this corporation-run government. Both of those are furthest from the truth. This election year has been a debacle of Hunger Game/Nazi proportions. Will we not learn from history or from futuristic literature? George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” but World War II wasn’t that long ago. Surely we haven’t forgotten it already or forgotten where racism, prejudice, and blindly following dictators who use repeated common fallacies in reasoning leads?!

I would remind you of the stories I have read, of Fahrenheit 451, “Harrison Bergeron,” The Handmaid’s Tale, The Giver series, the Unwind series, and ask how people cannot see the parallels. How they cannot see our country sliding headfirst into a dystopia.

I have tried to stay out of the political debates this year, but Trump scares me. He should scare all of us. Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor, winner of Nobel Peace Prize in 1986, and author of Night, wrote, “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

You always wanted to see the best in people, in our country, in our world. I wonder what you would say now, after all of the headlines and horrors of the past year. After the past week when our first amendment right to peaceful protest has been under attack. In the words of Elie Wiesel, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

 

So, today, I speak up and cast my vote. 

And, today, I’ve heard from various family members who are all thinking of you, honoring you, missing you.

Mom is planting a flower garden with roots and bulbs of perennials such as lilies, irises, wildflowers, and bleeding hearts. Every spring when they shoot up and bloom, she will think of you.

Others will watch a musical or Hitchcock classic or Shakespeare play, and some will reach out to a sibling or cousin and cherish the mundane fact of having a phone conversation with a loved one.

Still others will cook a meal that they learned in your kitchen while most of us will play a board or card game.

Whatever we do, we remember you.

Today is your special day. We love you, Uncle David. Happy birthday!

Love,

Rach