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 

Pandemic

Dear UD,

The world is closed. Shut down. And all I want to do is talk to Mom about it. Talk to you.

Mom would scoff at the way everyone is panicking and at the mass hysteria of hording toilet paper for Coronavirus, a respiratory illness. Like others, she would decry the world-wide pandemic, saying, “It’s just a flu” and thinking that the world has gone mad. That, plus she would preach that it’s proof that Jesus is returning soon. Whether I agreed with her or not, I would give anything to hear her voice and her laugh right now, to be able to talk to my mom about this global epidemic, to share news articles and concerns, and at the end of the call, have her say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, honey.” How I miss my mom and conversations with her. All day, every day. I miss her.

And you, Uncle David, you would sigh and point out connections between this scare and ones from the past. You’d retell the story about when you were kids and had to hide under your desks after the Second Red Scare to prepare for a possible nuclear attack during the Atomic Age. We’d have a discussion that touched on history, literature, theater, psychology, and current events. Whether we agreed or not, I would give anything to hear your voice and your laugh, to debate this important topic with you, and at the end of the call, have you say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, Rach.” How I miss you and our conversations. All day, every day. I miss you.

No matter what side of the debate one is on (people are freaking out for no reason versus the pandemic is real and serious), the images seen around the world are surreal. From Chinese in full hazmat gear to empty Italian streets to local stores with empty shelves…the images are eerie and disturbing. I’ve been listening to information from primary sources from the beginning (Uncle Bob sharing stories of Tim and his family quarantined in China as well as the Italian student I’m hosting providing news from her family in Italy). So I started stocking up before everyone went crazy. Uncle David, you would stock up, just in case (and Uncle Bob even stocked up after telling me all about the timeline of the Spanish Flu), but Mom, she wouldn’t need to prepare, living on a farm with well water, freezers always stocked with fresh farm meat, chickens roosting in the chicken house providing eggs, a pantry full of canned goods from last year’s garden, and the spring asparagus that just came up. Knowing that always made me feel safe. The family farm was my backup plan, and now, like you and Mom, my backup plan is gone.

 

I am adrift on a sea of uncertainty, feeling unmoored, isolated, and alone. 

My school has moved online for the rest of the semester, which means working from home. The U. S. hasn’t quarantined the whole country like China, Italy, and now France and Spain have. Perhaps it won’t happen here, but there are rumors that it might. Either way, we’ve been cautioned to practice social distancing as much as possible.  

I’ve prepared for hurricanes here in Florida, but that usually only means a few days or a week at home. The last time I remember even just two weeks stuck at home was when I was living in the upstairs rooms in Mom’s house on the family farm in 2015 right after Dad died and right before we lost you. That winter there was an ice storm and then a snowstorm that kept us mostly indoors for two weeks, but it was okay because even with forced “social distancing,” we had plenty of family members to hang out with. We played Bridge, Spades, and Scrabble, watched movies like Cool Hand Luke, The Blues Brothers, and Moonstruck, ate huge homemade meals together, watched the Blue Jays, Cardinals, and chickadees at the birdfeeder, and hiked outside down the road and along the rivers to see the glorious ice-covered woods and structures. And the younger generation also went ice-skating on the frozen pond and sledding. I even remember Sonny and Ben attaching a gate to the

big red truck to take the kids sledding. Yes, we still got a bit stir-crazy, and there were fights and annoying moments; however, we were in it together, got through it together, and survived together. And now I have those memories that I cherish.

But staying home now, here in Florida, for weeks or months with only a few rooms and only one other person to share it with feels very different. I keep thinking of Anne Frank and her family. They were in hiding for years. How did they do it? How could they stand it? I know they didn’t have a choice, but it is still unimaginable.

It’s not that I haven’t gone without before. Mom and Dad scraped by, and sometimes we ate whatever Dad could hunt. Mom birthed ten babies and only ever used cloth diapers. I grew up sharing one bathroom with ten other people and grew up rarely eating out. But I’ve gotten used to my comforts, including being able to go out and about whenever I want and going to the store and buying what I need and want. But, now the stores are out of some necessities.

And now, no one wants to talk anymore. They don’t want deep conversations, or phone calls. Just text me, they say. Just message me. Send a video, a photo, an emoji. But no phone calls, that human connection when not in the same physical space, that voice of a loved one, the sharing of words, ideas, questions to one other person who is really listening, who cares, who is taking time to share space together.

I’ve had a rough week, and not just because this one week held a time change where we lost an hour, a full wolf moon, a Friday the thirteenth, and a national emergency, but also because of communication struggles with loved ones. One morning, I ended up in the bathroom at work, sobbing before my classes started. Sobbing because I desire that human connection of really talking to others, really sharing everything with them (both positive and negative), and because I wish so much that I could talk to you and Mom about it all. Sobbing because I want to be seen and accepted for all of who I am. That day, I wiped away my tears, freshened up my makeup, and then went to teach stories like Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian.” Stories that have predicted so many things in our current society, stories that are coming truer every day. Is the Coronavirus the ultimate pandemic or is it the polarizing discord on social media or even the loss of human connection as we give more and more of our lives over to media and machines?

Plus, it’s March, which means spring and your birthday. I remember six years ago when we were all gathered together at your place to celebrate your birthday with you. The night before, we stayed up with Sonny, Mom, and Uncle Bob, playing bridge until midnight to ring in your birthday. Just before midnight, you jumped the bid to three no-trump and made it! And when the clock struck midnight, we sang Happy Birthday to you before heading to bed. The next morning, you made customized omelets for everyone even though you were the birthday boy, and we spent the day together playing games, talking, laughing, eating delicious food that you prepared, and sharing your birthday cake. Obi, Harley, and Lucky galloped in the backyard while you walked us around your property to witness the signs of spring: crocuses and daffodils, asparagus shoots, buds on the trees, martins and swallows around the birdfeeder, a lone red-headed woodpecker continuously striking a tall evergreen, and the filled rain gauge from recent spring showers. You and Mom both loved spring, and I love spring, though now it is bittersweet. I, too, still search for signs of spring, but there’s an ache knowing that we’ll never witness it together again.

Happy 66^th birthday, Uncle David. I am blessed to have had you in my life, and I will pass along the many treasures and lessons from you. And those from Mom. You would both tell me to remember that God is with me through even this. While that offers comfort, I still wish…  

I wish we could rewind to back when you and Mom were still with us. I wish you had both had more time on this earth. I wish we were together again, celebrating your birthday or riding out the pandemic or even just talking on the phone.

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!

Mom, A Thing of Beauty

Dear UD,

I’ve been dreading this November because last year’s November was the beginning of the end. A

year ago, Mom was healthy and alive, and everything was just fine. A year ago, we were oblivious and happy. Yes, Mom hadn’t been feeling well for a while, but she’d been working with a doctor, and we had no idea that cancer had taken root deep inside. It was late November, a year ago, when, a day after my birthday, we got the news that she had cancer. Six weeks later, she was gone. We lost her. And now we face the first November without her.

So, even trying to think of thinking of thankfulness and gratitude, of finding a thing of beauty every day this November, is painful. Difficult. Unthinkable.

But, UD, during my time of trying not to think of thanking, something occurred to me.

Mom was beautiful.

She was beautiful on the outside, and she was beautiful on the inside. She had a beautiful smile, her spirit was beautiful, everything about her was absolutely beautiful. Did she know it? Did she know and feel her beauty? Did she know that I, her oldest daughter, found her beautiful?

I thought about skipping "a thing of beauty" this year, but now I realize that I have to do it in honor of her. I want to find a thing of beauty every day this month, and I want that thing of beauty to be something for or from my mom. From what she looked like to what she did for people to what she believed to memories I have of her to shared experiences and adventures. This month, I want to explore and honor mom and everything beautiful in and of her.

Did Mom know how beautiful she was? Did you know? Do I? Do any of us really know how beautiful and precious we are?

I hope so.

UD, one of the things that I find beautiful about Mom was her connection with her siblings. You, Mom, and Uncle Bob were the three musketeers, the three stooges, the amigos. When the three of you were together, you were hilarious, fun, unstoppable. Uncle Bob is always the class clown, while Mom was the athletic showoff, and you were the smart goody-two shoes. But, you bound together and loved each other well and loved us well, and you all showed us the importance of family, of

frivolity, of faith.

Mom and her connection with you and Bob, her siblings—what a thing of beauty.

Love, Rach

PS: I hope that everyone who reads this will go and tell people you love how beautiful they are and how grateful you are for them in this world and how thankful you are to be sharing space with them right now.

Facing It (Without Mom)

Dear UD,

It’s August, Mom’s birthday month, and I can’t believe she’s not here. I am almost exactly 20 years younger than her, and I counted on her turning older a few months before me. Mom would have been, should have been, 69 this year. How do I face turning 49 without her to show me the way?

Everything, everything, everything reminds me of her.

I walk to the pool and find mushrooms, sprung up overnight, and I think of Mom. I spy wildflowers growing near the fence, and I think of Mom. I see rippling rivers, and I think of Mom. A fog rolls in, and I think of Mom. The sunset or sunrise splashes against the sky, and I think of Mom. The moon rises, and I think of Mom. I reach for the phone to send her a text or call her to tell her about something, and I think of Mom.

Everything, everything, everything, all day, every day, reminds me of her.

There have been too many changes in the past five years and way too many changes this year alone. How do we face all of these changes? How do we face it when life changes everything and everything changes? How do we face it when we no longer have you or Dad or Mom to talk to?

I went back to Missouri this summer for Crawford Camp, our family reunion, and it was bittersweet. Precious because all ten of us kids and most of the grandkids were there. Special because there were strong connections yet little drama. Good because we played hard and had fun. Nourishing because we had delicious and healthy homecooked meals, like Mom taught us. Difficult because it was our first time there without Mom. Challenging and sad without her, without you, without dad. Her spirit, her lessons, her voice permeated everything we did that weekend. We congregated in the kitchen or outside, cooking, talking, laughing, but every second we were one hundred percent aware that Mom wasn’t there, that we missed her. On Saturday morning, I woke up to fog and sunrise over the river, and tears rolled down my face as I thought how much Mom would have loved that. Will we ever have Crawford Camp again? How do we face family reunions without Mom?

The next week, I stayed with Jill and spent time with various family members during the week and helped with VBS at Bado Church. The past two summers, I’d helped Mom prepare for VBS and taken photos of the kids during it. This summer, it was surreal, distressing, devastating that she wasn’t there teaching one of the classes. And three of her grandkids were baptized that Sunday. I snapped photos of this joyous occasion, but I almost didn’t make it through. Mom would have loved that night so much, and it’s heartbreaking without her there. How do we face it? Sherry helped when she said she knew Mom was rejoicing in heaven that night. But will I ever be part of VBS at Bado Church again? Will the next generation still go there?

I went to Union Cemetery to visit Mom and Dad. First, I picked wildflowers and took them to the grave. I cried and talked to Mom. It’s still so unbelievable. Words can’t convey the pain and difficulty of facing a mother’s gravesite.

As I drove away from the family farm and the town where I grew up, I wondered if I’d ever stay there again? If I’d ever attend a holiday celebration there again? How do we face it when our childhood memories are being obliterated so that we can’t even recreate them for the next generation and the only thing left is memory?

Summer 2019—the first summer in my memory where I didn’t eat anything fresh out of my mom’s garden when visiting that area. How do we face the lack of bounty? I found some jars of canned beets and tomato juice, and this year, I shared the beets with my sisters. The tomato juice sits in my fridge unopened. Once that is gone, I will never again have anything to eat or drink that my Mom made. How do I face that?

Too many changes. Too much loss. How do we face it?

UD, the Amazon, the lungs of the earth, is burning. Every day, it seems, there’s a new nightmarish headline, and those unbelievable stories combined with such personal loss is staggering. Cataclysmic. How do we face it all?

It’s August and Mom’s birthday. Three years ago, I hosted a birthday party for her, and all the family came. I hold precious memories of that day, the last birthday I celebrated with Mom in person. I want her to have more birthday celebrations for me to attend. Today, I want to call her up and wish her a Happy Birthday and tell her how much I love her. But I can’t. How do we face the day without her?

I don’t want to face it…

In “the Journey Through Grief: The Mourner’s Six ‘Reconciliation Needs’,” Alan Wolfelt states, “Grief is what you think and feel on the inside after someone you love dies. Mourning is the outward expression of those thoughts and feelings. To mourn is to be an active participant in our grief journeys. We all grieve when someone we love dies, but if we are to heal, we must also mourn.”

Although I don’t want to face her birthday without her here, it has come regardless, so I will surround myself with some of Mom’s favorites. I brought home sunflowers for the dining room table, and I’ll listen to the Beach Boys sing “Barbara Ann.” I’ll make an egg sandwich for breakfast, and for dinner, I’ll eat the hamburger, potato, carrot dish that I made from Grandma Bonnie’s recipe in the family cookbook. Then, we’ll watch Prince of Persia, one of the last few movies I watched with Mom and one that she loved. And, I’ll drink herb tea and light a candle that smells like honeysuckle. Every moment of this day will be in honor and love and memory of Mom.

UD, I’ll end with a Bible verse that she loved and lived: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Philippians 4:8. I thank Mom for the gift of her example, and today and every day, I aspire to be like her and live this verse.

Love, Rach

It's April

Dear UD,

It’s April, the month of newness and spring and green—new births, spring buds, pink tulips, purple hyacinths, fresh asparagus, morel mushrooms, early garden planting. The time when box turtles awaken, baby goats frolic, and baby chicks chirp. The time when we color Easter eggs and celebrate a risen Savior. The sun is shining again, and in between April showers, blue skies spark warmth and happiness, enticing us outside for fresh air and the “peace of wild things.”

It’s April, the month we lost you four years ago, the month that brought unwelcome change. We’d just lost dad that January, and then months later, you, and everything changed for all of us. That year, Mom moved from the main farmhouse into a trailer on the upper part of the family farm and started over. New place, new vegetable garden, new flower garden planted with the bulbs you’d previously given her. She’d taken care of grandpa and then dad. She’d survived losing her baby brother. She was starting over.

It’s April, and Mom’s asparagus finally came up. Two years ago, she planted it. For two years, she cultivated it, waited eagerly for it, and now it’s here. Ready for her to eat, enjoy.

But she’s not here.

It doesn’t make sense, UD. I was just talking to a friend who is fifteen years older than me, and she talked of generations ahead of her and how she knows the time is coming for her to start losing them. One generation leaving to make room for the next. Sad, difficult, but part of the cycle of life. But you, dad, mom…you were all taken too soon, too young, and now we are orphans facing too much time alone, without your generation’s guidance and wisdom and support. It doesn’t seem fair, right.

I hate it.

For the first time in my memory, Mom’s vegetable garden is empty, earth untilled. Her flower garden is overgrown with weeds. Her yard unmowed. The position of matriarch of the family vacant.

Empty, barren, useless—that’s how the future feels right now without you, without Mom.

In her voice, I hear the echoes of her last words to me, “I love you, honey.” Though I will never hear her say those words to me again in this lifetime. That’s unbelievable. Unacceptable.

UD, it’s April, and the world looks so bleak without you, without Mom.

On April 13, the last known female Yangtze giant softshell turtle died in China, perhaps dooming the species to extinction.

On April 15, Notre Dame burned. That day, we didn't know the extent of the damage, but either way, it was still tragic. Horrific. And while I posted about it on Facebook, I didn't have anyone to call to mourn with me. Because it would have been you and Dad and Mom.

Notre Dame burned, and that day, one journalist wrote, “Notre Dame is a symbol of human accomplishment, and more than that, of social accomplishment. It’s not the work of any one person, but of generations upon generations of labor.”

When I talked to Alyssa last weekend, she told me a story about how you nurtured her, reminding me of how much you meant to her, to me, to all of us. For years, you were so vital to my life. Talking to you helped me process emotions and life. Working with you was part of my creative, artistic process—beginning, middle, and end—you assisted throughout. I knew you would listen anytime, about anything. Your unconditional acceptance and love sustained me, fueled me.

It’s been three months since we lost Mom, yet it feels like forever. Constantly, reverently, I reach to call Mom, text Mom, talk to Mom. All my life, she was there. Only a phone call away. No matter what, no matter how long, no matter why…I could reach out to her, the one constant in my life. And now, suddenly, she’s gone.

Without you, without Mom, where do we go from here? How do we survive? How does our large family stay connected?

The journalist also shared that “[Norte Dame] survived riots from the Huguenots. It survived the French Revolution. It survived Napoleon. It survived World War II. Notre Dame represents the most beautiful things that we as human beings can make if we pour unimaginable amounts of labor and wealth and resources and time into the effort.”

Likewise, all we can do now is survive. Survive and continue using the “resources” we learned from you, from Mom, from the generations before and pass them along to the generations that come after.

It’s April, UD, and we miss you. We miss Mom. We wish you’d both stayed with us a while longer.

Love, Rach

Note: It’s April, and my sister Jill took these photos on the family farm.

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