Yesterday I went over to your house. I was hoping you would open the door, but Daddy greeted me with his sweet smile. Yes, he still has a mustache. The one you hate, but I did manage to trim it up for him. I cut his hair too.
We talked about you over coffee and waited for you to join us, but you never did. He’s doing his best to do this life without you in it, but his eyes are clouded with memories and mixed with pain.
He misses you, Momma.
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Last week, I had lunch with my sister. You would be so proud of us for getting along. We ordered your favorite dish and laughed about how you would drink from a cup with your bottom lip tucked under. We shared favorite childhood memories, and how lucky we were to have you as our mom. Now we’re left trying to navigate this life without a mother in our lives, and we feel a bit lost.
We miss you, Mom.
Tonight, as I was tucking the littlest one into bed, I asked her if she missed you. Her answer was no. Then she locked eyes with mine and quickly added, “Because she is in Heaven with Jesus.” We both smiled and then recalled memories of you crawling up into her bunk bed and snuggling her until she fell asleep. The older two love to share stories about you too. They laugh about how you would embarrass them at their games being the loudest one cheering them on. I don’t think the reality of you being gone has really hit them.
Most days I think about you with fond memories, but for some reason, this guilt loves to swoop in leaving me feeling isolated and lonely. Motherhood is hard. I need you now more than ever, and you are gone. I feel unsure how to raise three daughters without you.
I’m left striving to put one foot in front of the other, only to have it feel as if I am stepping on sinking sand.
Trying to hold it together for everyone else is difficult.
This pain has nowhere to go and sometimes it comes out in not so pretty ways. The other day I began to recall a memory and tears filled my eyes, but I was forced to push it down. I held it together until all the girls were at school, then proceeded to scream at the top of my lungs until I ran out of breath. Everything just hurts. This doesn’t feel fair.
I miss you so very much.
You aren’t here to tell me, “It will all be alright. It’s just a season. You’re stronger than you think. I love you.” I so badly need to hear those words. I replay them in my mind often, only to have my heart sink wondering if I will ever forget the sound of your voice.
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Others are reminded of your presence when they see a butterfly or hear a certain song. Those things haven’t touched my heart yet as I still feel numb. I just want to hear your voice. Feel your hugs and sit on my porch swing and soak in your wisdom.
But then, I am reminded that you can’t feel or hear our pain right now. So, I want you to know I am OK mom. I’m going to be just fine.
Jesus meets with me on that porch swing.
He has gently reminded me that your physical presence may not be here, but your beautiful legacy lives on. It will live on in your granddaughters who deeply adored you.
While it feels so weird and awful to speak of you in the past tense, I am encouraged when I see them love fiercely, just like you. Your story will keep being told. We will see and hear you all around us in the actions of others who are living on purpose—for you.
I miss you, Mom. But I am forever grateful that God gave me you.