Dear Mom

All of us children made our way home over the fourth of July, Mom. Eleven years have passed since we gathered there to say our final goodbyes to you, and going home has never been quite the same since. We've gotten used to it - used to the house looking different since being remodeled; used to different furniture and different pictures on the walls; used to another woman bringing joy and life to daddy's eyes.

You being gone is not the only thing that has changed, Mom. Now our family gatherings include new faces - there are grandchildren with spouses or girlfriends/boyfriends who join us, and the first great-grandchild is on the way! There are not as many dolls played with, or stories read, or toys strewn all over the floor. There is still lots of laughter and games and creativity though.

After eleven years, the memories of you that arise from a trip home have dimmed a little, Mom. They're there, but not quite so sharply; not quite so front and center and poignant. We've gotten used to that, too. But this time was different. This time, we purposefully pulled out all of the memories.

All of the boxes got pulled out of the attic; all of the things in the hot, silent upstairs got sorted. The old dishes got unwrapped from their newspaper - the China and the melmac and the corelle. The stash of old eye glasses and wedding aprons got modeled, along with the wedding dress and suit. The old toys and books were set out, and the knick knacks and decor, and the old flannelgraph and missionary stories, and the letters; so many letters.

We laughed together and shed some tears. We sang together and told many stories. We went to the Folk Center and on an elaborate scavenger hunt planned by two granddaughters that took us to all the old haunts and brought up countless memories. The grandchildren played kickball and jump rope and ping pong and sneak and hide. And on the last evening we piled on the back of trucks and bounced down the Jericho road and had a picnic down at the white river; you would have absolutely loved it, Mom!

Now there are little pieces of my past scattered all around my house, and I love it. But the letters, Mom, it's those letters that have wrecked me.

I brought home a stack of Manila folders in my pile - folders with Junior Stories and Hints From Home-Acres articles from your days of writing for the Calvary Messenger; folders with bits and pieces of ideas and notes for stories you planned to write; folders with letters you wrote to your children while they were away from home. As I read through page after page of those letters in your fine, careful handwriting something happened, Mom, and I've found it hard to explain.

First came the aching lump in my throat, and then the tears; so many, many tears. The letters were interesting and fascinating, with so many details that I remembered, since we were living in Arkansas at the time. First my oldest was two years old in your letters, and then my second child was born, and finally I forced myself to stop reading for a while because I couldn't handle the tears and the deep, aching sadness. It was as if those pages brought you back to life, Mom, and I had almost forgotten who you were and what you were like.

There was more to it than that though, and it's this other part that I have struggled desperately to find words for. Reading your letters took me back to a life that no longer exists, Mom. A life that (from the vantage point of twenty plus years) was so.… secure. So safe. So sure. So…so simple. Juxtaposed against all the questions and uncertainties and complexities of today, my whole being ached to go back to what was. On the heels of that longing came the stark realization that I've come too far to go back, and then came the waves of intensely deep sadness.

I floundered around in my sadness, Mom, and the days felt dark and heavy. I couldn't put words to my feelings and none of it made sense. I didn't know what to do with the jumble and the blackness and the grief, until a friend listened to my heart and matter of factly replied, “That makes so much sense.” Her response startled me, and I think my immediate reaction was, “It does??”

Somehow her words flipped a switch inside of me, Mom. And suddenly I realized that maybe it all did make sense - not logical, spell-it-all-out kind of sense, but the rational, it's-okay-to-feel-this-way kind. She reminded me that this is the reality of what all of us are struggling with, and WILL struggle with; the pain of loss and brokenness that Paul talked about in Romans 8:18-25 NLT…

[18] Yet what we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory he will reveal to us later. [19] For all creation is waiting eagerly for that future day when God will reveal who his children really are. [20] Against its will, all creation was subjected to God’s curse. But with eager hope, [21] the creation looks forward to the day when it will join God’s children in glorious freedom from death and decay. [22] For we know that all creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. [23] And we believers also groan, even though we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste of future glory, for we long for our bodies to be released from sin and suffering. We, too, wait with eager hope for the day when God will give us our full rights as his adopted children, including the new bodies he has promised us. [24] We were given this hope when we were saved. (If we already have something, we don’t need to hope for it. [25] But if we look forward to something we don’t yet have, we must wait patiently and confidently.)

The grief of loss and the brokenness of this life is real; it’s normal and right to feel the ache of those things. But God gives peace in the middle of the chaos, and redemption is coming, Mom! Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

I am thankful for the memories and the reminders of another place and another time. I am grateful for you, Mom, and who you were and what you taught me. Today, with its joys and its chaos, is also good, and a tomorrow is coming when everything will be made right! That doesn't fix the brokenness or answer the questions or make sense of all the complexities that are part of the here and now, but it offers hope and joy; it brings rest and peace. Hallelujah.

Love, Bethany