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

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.

First Milkshake

For ten years, I’d wanted to host a foreign exchange student.  I imagined the excitement, the fun, the give and take of ideas and culture.  However, it had never seemed like the right time as life was too uncertain (during the past seven years, we lost our family home, sold or left most of our belongings, and moved half a continent away from everyone we knew as I faced a long divorce process) and money was too scarce. 

For the past three summers, I had watched as friends hosted while I’d envied their experience yet wondered how they could afford it.  As a single mom of two teenage daughters that I can barely afford to feed, I couldn’t see a way to make it happen. 

Still, the idea wouldn’t leave me. 

God placed this desire on my heart for a reason, so summer 2012, I decided to take a chance.  If I wait for the “right” time, then I might never have the experience, I reasoned.  It’s Lexi’s last summer before graduating from high school, I rationalized.  If we don’t do it now, then we likely will not do it at all.

I listened to the voice in my heart that told me to open my heart, my door, my home, my family and to trust that it would work out, and I obeyed.  The risk paid off as we were blessed immensely with the best summer of our lives and with an experience that we will never forget and that has enriched our lives.

While there were stressful times this summer when I worried about how to feed three mouths or how to find gas money to drive them around and busy times when I worked hard at three jobs in order to have a chance to make it, something always worked out, and I am thankful.  Thankful for the help, for the memories we stored up, and for the lessons we learned along the way.  For instance, we will never forget sitting outside at Sonic, sipping Cherry limeades, while Astrid had her first ever milkshake, and my girls truly understood how blessed their lives are.

So Glad You Came

   

          17-year-old Astrid grabs me in a tight hug that lasts for five minutes.  With her Hollister tank top, Aeropostale shorts, flip flops, dark tan, and ponytail, she looks like any other Florida teen and in fact could pass as a sister of my two American daughters.  This summer, Astrid has become my honorary daughter. Tears streak down her cheeks as she sobs in clear, perfect English, “Thank you so much.  It was a perfect summer!”  I hug her close as both sadness and gratitude fill my heart.  I tell her that I don’t want her to leave and am so glad she came.

          Lexi and Laina each take two or three turns to hug her goodbye.  “We will see you again someday,” they vow.  Still, she cannot leave and opens her arms wide.  “Come here,” she instructs, and all four of us gather into a family bear hug.  “Thank you.  I had so much fun.  I love you.  You are a wonderful family.”

          We air-kiss, the French way, and she enters the vehicle that takes her away from us and back towards France. 

          I gather my girls close to comfort them as we enter our suddenly too-empty house.  After tears run dry, we play songs from the summer and sing aloud, almost shouting the words:  “The sun goes down, the stars come out, and all that counts is here and now.  My universe will never be the same.  I’m glad you came.  So glad you came.”  

          We trade stories, sharing and remembering our favorite moments with Astrid:  tubing the springs at Kelly Park, eating the special meal the girls planned and I cooked on Independence Day, watching fireworks over the Indian River, frolicking for beach photo shoots, shopping at Vero Beach, swimming in the tide pool at Sebastian Inlet, eating fresh-picked mangoes.  We upload photos and celebrate the memories: kayaking in the Banana River with dolphins, watching the Manatee baseball game, dancing with Evolution, enjoying a day at Sea World and Wet N Wild, goofing off at a sleepover. 

          We all three agree:  even though we are extremely sad to say goodbye, we would not trade the experience for anything.  We have all learned so much.  “I love it!” and “It’s amazing!” are two of her favorite expressions, and her enthusiasm has infused us with energy and light.

          How is it that we are so lucky?  Why have we been so blessed?