When the World was Mud Wonderful

Dear UD,

It’s spring again, which means rain and green, mud and warmer weather, flowers and baby birds, births and birthdays, yours, today.

 

It’s been eleven years since we lost you, eleven years since the last birthday we shared with you at your house. It seems both yesterday and forever ago that we all gathered together, playing Scrabble and Bridge, eating meals, laughing, talking, taking a walk around your land. All the family together, celebrating you.

 

Did you know, somehow, it was your last birthday that year? You invited us all, asking only that we bring a personal note or card, words of love and joy, gratitude for your place in our lives.

 

It’s been eleven years without you, UD, and I miss you still. I miss you and dad and mom. There are so many things I want to tell you all today, so many things to share. The best one is that I have a second grandson, Elijah, now, and he’s six months old and such a happy baby. DJ is now four and loves to read and play. You would all love them both. There’s so much that you all taught me that I now teach them, and I am grateful for your birthdays, your days with me, and your legacies that I pass on.

 

               The worst one is of news, wars and rumors of wars, famine, divide, the end nearer than ever. So many are hurting; so many are scared; so many are lost. Without hope.

 

But there is always hope.

               Every day, every moment is a choice. The best or the worst. The good or the bad. Which one will I focus on today? I remember how you once told me that I can stand in the middle of a raging storm and still be calm, still be okay. While I understood that intellectually then, I didn’t know how to do that. Now, I do.

 

               It’s spring again. It’s your birthday again. It’s storming outside right now: dark clouds roll by with strikes of lightning in between rolling thunder and strong winds blowing rain every which way. Yet I am at peace. Right here, right now, I have all I need. Right here, right now, I remember and honor you, mom, dad, and I am filled with love and hope. Right here, right now, the world is mud wonderful.

 

Love,

Rach

Seventy

Dear UD,

Seventy years ago you were born. Seven zero. Seven decades. Seven times ten. The world welcomed you for sixty-one years. Seventy minus nine.

 

“Minus,” a simple word, holds so much. Less than. Subtracted by. Diminished. Changed.

 

You, mom, dad, the others gone so soon…those of us who remain are changed by the subtraction. Our lives altered by your absence on this earth, but also transformed by your example in our lives.

 

Your years are over, and you are all missed so much. Yet your legacy and love and lessons live on in those you touched, live on in our memories, in our hearts, in our descendants.

 

For nine years, I have written letters— words to remember you all, words to share your lessons, words to honor our heritage.

 

Thank you, Uncle David, Mom, Dad. We wouldn’t be who we are without you, and we are grateful.

 

Love, Rach 

Waiting Room

 

Waiting Room

I’m 24 and lying in a hospital bed in Houston, Missouri. It’s a cold winter evening, December 31, 1994, and the KC Chiefs fight to win a playoff game on the TV somewhere in the hospital. Everyone who is not currently with me is gathered around, watching the game, a distraction from their enthusiasm and nervousness. Everyone—all of my family, all of my husband’s family—are at the hospital, awaiting the birth of the first grandbaby. The soon-to-be grandparents (my mom and dad, his mom and dad) have all arrived to bear witness and celebrate this momentous occasion. On the family farm, my siblings, soon-to-be aunts and uncles, play Scrabble, Spades, and Bridge while waiting for the next morning when I will bring the newborn baby girl to join the family fun. Half a state away, soon-to-be great grandparents, aunts, and uncles pray and wait for the phone call to come. The first thing I

remember the nurse saying when I arrived at the hospital that evening after my water broke is that the baby has a full head of hair. Alone in labor, I am surrounded by family and prayers and love. The father of the child is in the room with me as is my mom. I have no qualm about the support, love, and place my baby will have in the extended families. Four and a half hours after I arrive at the hospital, I give birth to a beautiful, fairy-wood brown eyed daughter, Alexia Devin. Euphoric, her dad rushes into the waiting room, having missed the Chiefs beat the Raiders, and announces her much anticipated arrival to all of the family gathered together waiting. The next morning, we place this beloved December baby in a red Christmas stocking, the very one her dad had been put in after his birth, and take photos to commemorate her birth and her place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson families.

 

    I’m 27 and lying in a hospital bed in Columbia, Missouri. It’s a hot summer day, July 2, 1998, and my parents are driving the curvy, hilly roads through the Ozark Mountains on the way to greet their next grandchild. After only one hour of labor, I feel a desire to push, but the nurses say to wait for the doctor. I can’t, I moan. I’m glad that my husband’s parents have arrived, and as I begin to push, he remains by my side while they accompany three- and a half-year Lexi on a grand tour of the hospital. Alone in the labor, I am still surrounded by family, prayers, and love. After only five minutes, I give birth to a beautiful, brown eyed firecracker daughter, Alaina Beth, and her dad rushes out to collect his parents and Lexi to meet the newest, much-loved daughter who brings sparkles of sunshine and joy into the family. The next day, I bake an apple pie for our journey to Kansas City to stay with his parents for Fourth of July weekend, and the next weekend, we travel to the family farm as the family (including great-grandparents) celebrates her birth and her place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson families.

 

The girls grew up under the wings of the shadow of family and extended family and are rooted in love and prayers from all the generations before. As adolescents and teenagers, they went through their parent’s divorce as well as relocating 17 hours away from family, and as young women, have experienced other loss and grief and heartbreak as well as many blessings, opportunities, and extraordinary experiences. Whether they are 20 hours away, a whole country away or an hour away, they always know where they come from and the strong foundation of family and love they can always count on. 

I’m 50 and sitting alone in my home in Melbourne, Florida. It’s a fairly cool autumn evening, September 27, 2021, and I’m waiting for a text message from my youngest daughter who is lying in a local hospital. Alone in labor, her boyfriend is next to her, and I hope she knows how much love and how many prayers she has surrounding her right now. Because of too many losses, there are no great-grandparents on our side of this new family. Because of the pandemic, only one person is allowed in the room with her. Because of covid-19 and its variants, the hospital only allows visitors from 7am to 9pm, so there is no waiting at the hospital tonight to greet the newest family member. But a sister and niece plan to fly in to visit and help sometime soon. Lexi and I wait, only minutes away, to meet David James. No matter what, I will see him and welcome him into the family. But should I keep a distance? Should I not “take your unvaccinated self” near him, as some people have thrown at me in shame or scare-tactics during the past week? Whatever the answer, we will find a way to honor his birth and his place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson, and Pearson families.

On September 28, 2021, I walk into the waiting room of Holmes Regional Medical Center’s Birthing Room and spy Lexi. She’s checked in and settled into the corner where she plans to wait for me to visit. Davey’s parents also arrive around the same time, but they elect to return later. I wish we could all greet the new baby together. I am the first visitor to see Alaina and DJ, and I’m so excited. I take the elevator up the stairs to the large, airconditioned waiting room where I check in with the security officer. Masks are required in the building, so of course everyone I see has them on, though no one, medical staff included, is wearing a surgical mask. He checks my ID and scans for weapons. Then, he asks me to stand close to the small camera and remove my mask. He snaps my photo, and I put my mask back on. Because of Covid-19 protocols, only one visitor is allowed in the room with the mother and newborn, and right now Davey, the dad, is there. I text my daughter that I’m ready, and she texts back that Davey is on his way. The security guard instructs me to return downstairs to the small, all-glass waiting room that is crowded and heated from the sun shining through the windows.

“Why,” I ask him, “it’ll only be a minute before we trade out.”

“Because of Covid,” he responds.

“I don’t understand,” I say, gesturing to the completely empty and large waiting area.

“You might expose the room to covid.”

I scoff, reminding him that I just removed my mask for the photo ID (as does every single visitor). “I’m not trying to argue, and I’ll do what you request,” I say. “I’m just trying to understand logically.” After all, you are standing in front of every single visitor when he/she removes the mask every time all day long, so you pose more of a risk combined. I walk towards the elevator, and he tags along.

“I don’t think you’re trying to argue. It’s just the hospital policy, and if I let you stay up here, I’ll lose my job.”

“I’m going down. I don’t want that. I just don’t understand how I am safer down in that overheated tiny space crowded in with all those other people than up here in the spacious, air-conditioned empty room.”

“I’ve been a security guard for all types of people and places, and I agree. I’ve never seen anything like this before, but it’s what I have to do.”

I smile and wave goodbye as the elevator door closes. I talk to Lexi for less than a minute before Davey arrives, wondering where I am and why Laina has to be left alone for even a few minutes. We give Davey a hug. “Thank you for being there for Laina last night,” I say as I grip the vase of flowers and giftbag that I have for Laina. I return to the fourth floor where the security guard is taking a photo of a maskless man. I wait over six feet away while he finishes and escorts him into the maternity suite. The guard again swipes me, looking for weapons, before finally allowing me to enter the sacred space and see my daughter and new grandson, my first grandbaby. When I find her room, two nurses are talking to her and checking her vitals. I wait in the doorway, unsure of the proper procedure. I wish so much that Lexi can come up at the same time, so that all three of us can be together for this momentous occasion, but only one visitor is permitted in the room at a time even though two or more medical personnel are authorized to crowd the room. Nothing makes sense!

They see me and beckon me in, and I am in awe as I glance at DJ all swaddled up in a blanket, lying in the crib. He has a hat on, and his face, while bruised around the mouth, is not scrunched up like many newborns, even with a natural delivery. I lightly brush my finger on his soft cheek. He’s adorable and precious, and I already love him so much. 

One nurse leaves while the other one hands Laina the feeding chart, instructing her to keep track of when the baby breastfeeds. After reviewing everything with Laina, the nurse says she’s going to chance waking up the baby and go ahead with his checkup now. I’m standing near the crib, and I watch as the nurse listens to his heartbeat. She bends over, placing the stethoscope on his chest, breathing directly towards his face. Even standing to the side and even through our  masks, I can smell her foul breath. How many patients have you been exposed to in the past day? Week? He’s defenseless and has no protective mask.

When she removes the blanket to check him, he stirs and cries briefly. I count his fingers and toes, and as I do, he grasps my finger, holding it with his tiny hand. My heart melts. She finishes her exam, swaddles the newborn again, lays him on Laina’s lap, and leaves the room.

Finally, I talk to my daughter and hear her birth story, her fears and pain, her wonder and joy, her power and strength. Connection, bonding, spending time together over the delight of her newborn son. I snap photos to commemorate the moment. Lexi Facetimes me, and for a few moments, the three of us pause, coming together the only way we can on this special day under the pandemic protocols.

I take my turn holding the cherished newborn, though at 7 pounds and 11 ounces he’s tiny and light. I return him to his mama, and we continue our conversation. Forty-five minutes after I arrive, he gives a cry, and Alaina instantly begins to breastfeed him. I’m so proud of her and of the amazing mother that she already, instinctually, is.

When I am finally back down in the tiny, hot, overcrowded waiting room, Lexi takes her turn to greet him and visit her sister. I head back home because Davey is bringing food for Laina soon, so after Lexi, he will spend the rest of the day in the room with mama and baby. The dad is the one visitor allowed in the room anytime, as long as no other visitors are there. Though after nine that evening, my daughter will Facetime with me to tell me that she and DJ will be spending the night alone in the hospital since Davey has to return home to take care of their dogs. Lexi or I will stay with you, I suggest, but alas only the father is allowed in the hospital after nine. Also, even if we watch the dogs for him, there’s no place in the tiny room for him to sleep except an uncomfortable chair next to the hospital bed and crib, crammed in the back corner of the room. No new mother should have to stay in the hospital alone. What an isolated, dystopian society in which to give birth. 

But I hold onto those few moments in the hospital when the three of us were together to celebrate DJ and his birth, welcoming him to the world and to his place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson, and Pearson families.

One month photo gallery:

Memorial Day 2020

Dear UD,

It’s Memorial Day weekend in 2020, a global pandemic still ravages, many states in America are in the middle of a phase to reopen, and all across the United States, people are preparing to gather together for the holiday weekend. Some Americans plan to stay home, others plan to go out while practicing caution and social distancing, yet there are those who don’t see a risk and simply want to have fun and/or exercise their freedom. Simultaneously, the New York Times major headline for this weekend reads, “U. S. Deaths Near 100,000, an Incalculable Loss.” It is a historic front page—simply a list of names of those Americans who have died from Covid-19 so far this year. The article then reveals memories, snippets from obituaries across the nation, of those lost to the virus during this pandemic; their positions, their hobbies, their accomplishments, their gifts and talents, their loved ones left to mourn their loss. The article honors them yet serves as a sober warning and reminder.

Uncle David, during the last several years of your life, you wrote a series of full-length plays titled Memorial Day Picnic (Morning 1919, Afternoon 1945, Evening 1976, Night 2007). I remember being one of your readers during that time and how much I loved the plays and your brilliance. The plays, always set on Memorial Day, range over the course of a century and include family drama, American history from World War I to World War II to the Vietnam War to the Iraq War and all the way to 9-11, and honor for the military personnel who have died while serving in the U. S. military.

Of those who served in those wars, there were a little over 100,000 deaths during World War I, over 400,000 deaths during World War II, over 50,000 deaths during Vietnam, and close to 5,000 deaths during the Iraq War.

UD, can you imagine an America where 100,000 people die from a virus in three months?

According to the NYTarticle, one of those was a 91-year old who “saved 56 Jewish families from the Gestapo.” It is all mindboggling, UD, and lugubrious. Just like in a war, there are now so many holes in so many families. Empty chairs, empty hearts, empty places that were once full. Once whole. So much knowledge wiped out. Gone. Forever disappeared.

Your plays span generations, showing connections, collective mourning, and emotional trauma passed down from one generation to the next. Likewise, this pandemic will span generations, pass down emotional trauma, and spur collective mourning. That’s already happening this weekend as we sit in our homes, reading the names of those recently lost to the virus and as we contemplate all of those lost in military service for our country and as we remember those loved ones we lost too soon.

UD, I miss you. I miss Mom. I miss Dad. I miss Grandpa and so many others. But I thank God for your time on this earth and in my life, and I vow to keep your memories alive, to pass your names down to the next generations, and to continue your values and traditions even in the middle of a world-wide pandemic.

Love,

Rach     

Shelter in Place

Dear UD,

Five years from last weekend I was sitting at a local theater production in Willow Springs, Missouri to watch Laina perform in The Little Mermaid musical. Mom attended with me as did some siblings and nieces and nephews. Mom treated us to dinner afterwards as we celebrated the success of the play and performance. We were so happy that night. Together and secure in one of those moments of

sanctuary in the midst of the storms our family faced.

Alaina and I were in Missouri then because that semester, I was sheltering on the family farm, living in the upstairs section of my childhood home. I had returned home in time to have a couple of weeks of quality time with Dad after he went on hospice, and I had stayed to help Mom with all the small details that come when someone leaves this earth. I remember phone arguments with cable companies refusing to close his account, boxes and boxes of Dad’s extensive collections of CDs and DVDs that I shipped off, a red cattle trailer filled with Dad’s eclectic collection of books, a thorough cleaning and painting of Dad’s room, and a shopping trip for furniture to remake the space into a bedroom for me. A mere eight months before we lost Dad, Grandpa died. Born in April of 1918 (during the first year of the Spanish Flu), he lived for 96 years. A three-time war veteran, he was a Naval officer for 30 years before retiring to work the century family beef farm for the next thirty plus years. Grandpa was a constant and comfort all of our lives, and suddenly he was gone. And not even a year later, Dad was gone too.  

Those two deaths heralded the beginning of a new normal for me and my family.

Uncle David, I remember you and I talking about how the death of a parent would bring new roles and expectations within the family system. After losing your mom, Grandma Bonnie, when you were in your twenties, you understood all the dynamics. We discussed how the death of a parent not only changes the family dynamics, roles, and standings, but also changes the way we see ourselves and the way we experience the world. The way our shelters become unhinged. The way our moorings begin to loosen.  A new normal. My God, how I hated the idea of that. Unfortunately, it was only the cusp of “new normals” one after another after another that we would soon face.

Earlier that April, I remember celebrating spring with Mom, Laina, Jill, Sarah, and various nieces and nephews as we went on a mushroom hunt one stormy April day. We walked down the gravel road to Possum Creek before hiking into the woods. We spied a turtle just out of hibernation, still covered in mud, and spring buds and wildflowers. A garter snake slithered by, scaring us for a moment. Not finding any morels, we walked back home and past mom’s gardens (both the vegetable garden we’d helped plant and the flower garden full of spring flowers from seeds and bulbs you sent her) and into a field on the family farm, then down to the river behind the house. For hours, we hunted and laughed and searched and teased. For hours, we spied signs of spring but no mushrooms. The storm hit, and the rain drenched us as thunder boomed and lightning struck. In the end, we found morel mushrooms growing right by Grandpa’s old house, now Sonny’s place, and next door to Mom’s. How you loved that story. I can still hear echoes of your infectious and hearty chuckle. But that afternoon was another moment of sanctuary where we were safe and together.

On a Tuesday, a few weeks after the mushroom hunt and a couple of days after the performance, I called to talk to you, UD. I remember sitting in the new La-Z-Boy chair in Dad’s old room, my new abode, and chatting about my lesson plans and your dogs and asparagus shoots. The family was still getting used to the new normal after losing Dad and Grandpa, but I found shelter in my conversation with you and in our connection. You weren’t feeling your best, so we didn’t talk long. I told you to get some rest, and as per usual, we both said, “I love you.” Those were the last words I would ever hear from you, say to you. I love you.

 

Two days later, on April 28, 2015, I was grading papers at home when Mom called to tell me you died. I will never forget that gut-wrenching moment when I found out that we all lost another anchor in our lives, another shelter, another piece of our hearts. You loved us and guided us and taught us, and I didn’t know how we would move on without you. Another new normal already, only four months later, and I honestly just wanted to punch anyone who talked about getting used to that. Nothing can replace someone special in our lives. Nothing can replace the love, the connection, all the parts of the relationship that help make us who we are. There are no words to describe the deep loss and hole that blossomed into our lives that April day.

Within the next two years, so much changed as we adjusted to the losses and the grief. In the end, I had a full-time job and was back in Florida while Mom moved into a smaller place on the family farm and gave Ben our childhood home. At her new location, Mom worked to create another flower garden with bulbs from you and planted asparagus which takes two years to start producing. As much as we could, we had adjusted to this new normal, but our hearts would never be the same. Our lives would never be the same. We would never be the same.

Then, in November of 2018, Mom was diagnosed, suddenly and horrifically, of stage-four cancer. Within six weeks, we lost her. Again, our hearts shattered, our lives changed, and we had to start a new normal as orphans. Again, but even more severely, I went through it all—shock, horror, denial, fear, anger (lots of anger), anxiety with sleeplessness and panic attacks. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t settle. I wasn’t okay at all, but I was going through the motions day by day. I didn’t settle into a “new normal,” but I threw myself into my work and sought out adventures with siblings and friends.

“Really it was her mother she’d wanted to call right after the bad news, or in the middle of it... First thing in the morning, last thing at night, whenever a fight with [her daughter] left her in pieces, it had been her mother who put Willa back together. When someone mattered like that, you didn’t lose her at death. You lost her as you kept living.” Barbara Kingsolver, Unsheltered

Four months after losing Mom, my youngest daughter moved out unexpectedly, leaving me dealing with the empty nest on top of the still-raw grief of losing Mom. Another new normal in such a short time. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t settle. I couldn’t even see the point of living anymore. I don’t mean that I was suicidal because I wanted to live, but I couldn’t see hope or purpose or meaning in any of it. All I could see was deep pain. A pain that didn’t stop, never healed, and continued with loss and loneliness.  

UD, I don’t even have a new normal from all of that yet. I have tried some different things like hosting an Italian student for the school year and visiting my family in Missouri more, but now, I don’t even know what to think.

It’s a hundred years since the birth of Grandpa during the Spanish Flu Pandemic, and now we are in the middle of the Covid-19 Flu Pandemic. The world is shut down, and we are under a shelter in place mandate.

Now everyone has a new normal. Everyone is dealing with a public and collective grief and new normal, and it is bizarre and surreal.

I fluctuate between these—1. missing you and Mom even more, wishing I could talk to you both about this and feel that sense of security that came from having you both in my life. 2. not even thinking about my personal grief as much. Not because it is gone or because I have healed but because I am in survival mode and just trying to cope with too much uncertainty and loss.

Collectively as a nation, as a world, we’re sheltering in place, but we have no mooring, no guarantees, no sanctuary. We are, in a sense, “unsheltered.” Everything is changing for everyone all around the globe, and we don’t know when or how things will settle. We don’t know who will survive or what the world will look like when this pandemic is over. We don’t know exactly how it is impacting countries and people individually or what the end of it will bring for each country and person.  As one character living during contemporary times reveals in Barbara Kingsolver’s new novel, Unsheltered, “…taking all the right turns had led her family to the wrong place, moneyless and a few storms away from homelessness.” With too many Americans living paycheck to paycheck like this, what is going to happen to them in the next few months, in the next couple of years?

As another character from Unsheltered says, this one living during the 1870s, “We are given to live in a remarkable time. When the nuisance of old mythologies falls away from us, we may see with new eyes. … Without shelter, we stand in daylight.”

UD, sheltering in place is hard. Living without shelter is also difficult. Doing either without the sanctuary from you, from Mom is agonizing and challenging. As I pondered on everything that I wanted to tell you, two Bible verses came to mind, thanks to the strong example and foundation from Mom during my childhood, and these verses brought some comfort. Psalm 28:7 states, “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him.” The other is one of Mom’s favorite chapters in the Bible: Psalms 91.

Psalm 91: Safety of Abiding in the Presence of God

91 He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High

Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

² I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress;

My God, in Him I will trust.”

³ Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler

And from the perilous pestilence.

⁴ He shall cover you with His feathers,

And under His wings you shall take refuge;

His truth shall be your shield and buckler.

⁵ You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,

Nor of the arrow that flies by day,

⁶ Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,

Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.

⁷ A thousand may fall at your side,

And ten thousand at your right hand;

But it shall not come near you.

⁸ Only with your eyes shall you look,

And see the reward of the wicked.

⁹ Because you have made the Lord, who is my refuge,

Even the Most High, your dwelling place,

¹⁰ No evil shall befall you,

Nor shall any plague come near your dwelling;

¹¹ For He shall give His angels charge over you,

To keep you in all your ways.

¹² In their hands they shall bear you up,

Lest you dash your foot against a stone.

¹³ You shall tread upon the lion and the cobra,

The young lion and the serpent you shall trample underfoot.

¹⁴ “Because he has set his love upon Me, therefore I will deliver him;

I will set him on high, because he has known My name.

¹⁵ He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him;

I will be with him in trouble;

I will deliver him and honor him.

¹⁶ With long life I will satisfy him,

And show him My salvation.”

UD, I don’t know what will happen, but I realized that, as distressing and difficult as this all is, I can stand strong in the foundation that you and Mom provided. The love and conversations and guidance from you still sustain me. The love and time together and everything Mom taught me still nurture me. And all of it shelters me.

Love, Rach

Gifts from the Sea

 Today, a month later, I walked outside again. When I drive over to the beach, I enjoy walking outside. Overall, anywhere, anytime I love walking outside in nature, but more than any other place, the wilderness of the Missouri Ozarks speaks to me, feels like home. When I’m there in Missouri, I tend to take walks outside more often, but I finally made it to Melbourne Beach this morning. I took a walk along the beach, hunting for seashells, snapping photos, and listening to the sounds of the seagulls and waves.

So far, this year has been rough. January was filled with too many anniversaries, and not the good kind. And too many conflicting emotions and too many new hurdles to handle. Not to mention too much work and too much time alone. It’s strange because I am an introvert who loves having time alone and loves several passive activities (reading books, writing, etc.); however, since losing Mom and becoming an “orphan,” I find it difficult to be alone for too long.

But today, I took a beach walk alone and found much to be grateful for. Even though it’s an overcast, gray day, it was gorgeous outside. The fresh breeze invigorated while the crash of the rolling waves refreshed. As I walked barefoot in the wet sand, I realized that everything is okay in this present moment. I left the beach feeling energized and even happy, and I am thankful for the gifts from the sea.  

Mothers Carry Love

Dear UD,

It’s May, the month of mothers, May flowers, and graduation celebrations.

“I remember all the flowers you picked for me for Mother’s Day,” Mom said when I stayed with her last December. I remember too. I see me at 14, walking the family farm, hiking the rivers, climbing the bluffs, clutching a fistful of Missouri wildflowers. Purples, yellows, whites galore, but on I walked, searching for the rare red ones to round out the bouquet. Every year until I married and moved away, I brought Mom a handful of colorful wildflowers.

The past two summers I stayed with Mom in July, and even then, I hunted for wildflowers to bring her. Wildflowers and rocks with holes in them. I just realized that I don’t know why rocks with holes were so special to her, but she collected them so we searched for them anytime we walked or swam the rivers.

And now there’s a hole in my life because she’s gone.

I never even contemplated a Mother’s Day without Mom. Incomprehensible. Inexplicable. Inconceivable. Completely and utterly unfathomable. Unimaginable. Unbelievable.

At least not this soon. Not this quickly. Not when she was only in her sixties.

Aidan is graduating this month, and his Granny won’t be there. An empty seat that should be filled. An empty place that once was filled. That only months ago would have been filled. A generation of grandkids who will miss her, some who may not remember her. Unthinkable. Unacceptable. Unbearable.

This week is rough, UD. I’m heartbroken. All the time. Everything reminds me. Makes me sad. Everything, everything, everything.

Mom is irreplaceable. Rare. Exceptional. She is loved and missed more than words can convey.

Moms are life; they give birth to new beings. Moms are selfless; they sacrifice for their offspring. Moms are home; they offer grounding, place,

and foundation.

It’s Mother’s Day, UD, and we’re motherless. Motherless, without a mom here on this earth. Motherless—no synonyms, substitutes, replacements for mothers. Motherless for the rest of our lives. How do we go on from here? You lost your mom, Grandma Bonnie, in your thirties. How did you do it? How did Mom?

But you had each other, and we had you both. It’s so lonely without you, without Mom. I miss her voice, her fresh garden vegetables, her smile, her cooking, her advice, her adventurous spirit, her welcoming and giving service to everyone. I miss her presence here on earth, knowing I could reach out and she would be there. Knowing I had someone on my side, always. Knowing I had a place to go, no matter what.

One of the most precious lessons I learned from Mom is this—to include and welcome everyone.
Mom never met a stranger, and her home was always open for those in need. Like a mother hen collecting chicks, Mom surrounded herself with those who needed. Always, she gave, fed, welcomed. Her love carried on her hands as she gave to others. Her love carried on her heart as she shared with others. Her love carried on her prayers as she remembered everyone.

And now, UD, even though we are motherless, heartbroken, devastated, and inconsolable, we must survive, remember, and band together. Through the tears and grief, remember Dad, you, Mom. Through the pain and sorrow, remember the moments we treasure. Through the anguish and loss, remember the lessons and love from you all. Together we stand stronger. Together we welcome others. Together we carry love on our hands, hearts, and prayers.

Love, Rach

PS: Thanks to my sister Jill Adams for some of these nature photos.

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.