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It’s impossible to believe it has been a year since my sweet mama passed into Spirit. I had no idea last December what to expect in the days, months, and longest year that followed, and I’m not sure I have any greater sense of things now. I tried to write, both during her illness and in the months that followed because I wanted to be able to see what the world looked like then, and remember our journey to now. I think that was a good way to keep track of emotions and memories. I have learned a few things from my experiences over this past year, maybe none of them profound, but things that have stuck with me that seem worthy of sharing.
- Whatever you are feeling, it’s okay, and it’s caused by grief. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out if what I felt was “normal.” Eventually, I realized emotions and reactions are all over the place, some days are good, some aren’t, you laugh, you cry, you scream, and EVERY SINGLE EMOTION is entirely normal. Whatever you feel on any given day at any given moment is right for you, and don’t let anybody else tell you differently. Feel it all! It’s normal, and it’s okay to feel it.
- We are terrible as a society at grieving. We dance around the hardest days and emotions without diving in. People mean well when they tell you to “cheer up” and “think about the happy times” but those well-intended words can’t begin to touch the Mom-shaped hole in my soul. I’ve learned there really are no words that help someone who is grieving deeply, so I offer my love, a prayer for peace and strength in the long days ahead, or usually just the biggest hug. Hearts and tears can connect when words cannot.
- At every stage of the grief journey, conserve your energy. Don’t feel badly about pulling back on things, and it’s okay to care a little less about things in your household, your job, or the world. You need to focus on yourself, putting one foot in front of the other, remembering to eat, sleep, and hydrate. The world feels entirely different with my mom gone, and it has taken me a lot of time to slow down and understand exactly what has changed. I still need all my energy to process these new surroundings. Conserve your energy for what matters deeply to you.
- Your circle is going to get a lot smaller, and that is okay. I felt a lot of guilt about saying no to socializing or events, but I just couldn’t find the energy to be around people. I remain fairly withdrawn from the social world, but I have a core group of friends who get me right where I am, no matter what that looks like. Those people lift me in constructive ways and make me stronger in such important aspects of my life. I will return to the social world gradually, but for now, I am incredibly grateful for my little posse of The Best People. A small circle of people who make you a better person is a great place to hurt and heal.
- There is no wrong way to stay connected to memories and emotions. I like to go into Mom’s kitchen with her recipes and use her pans and kitchen utensils, listen to her music, and talk to her while I prepare a meal, or go to yoga and talk to her from my mat. My sister likes to be surrounded by her things all day long and invite her into her dreams. My dad likes to look at her pictures every day and talk about our happiest memories. Whatever works is what you should do. Find your own way of connecting and embrace it fully.
- I cannot overstate the importance of having the best Best Friend. Mine is the most remarkable human, and I would be lost without her daily even though she lives across the country. There was a point when I was continually breaking down, and she said, “come be with me,” and I just up and went. She pampered me, loved me, and immersed me in her world, but she had been reading books about grief because she wanted to understand better…and we had the most beautiful conversations because she cared enough to be present and try to help. She always listens, always shares her heart, and always loves me even on my worst days. I don’t deserve her…but she saves me on the daily. She has taught me how to be a better friend, especially in such emotional times. If you have that person in your world, treasure them.
- Whenever possible, schedule your bad days. I knew Mother’s Day would be rough, I knew her birthday would gut me…so I scheduled time alone. Cleared my calendar, put on all her music, burned her incense, and surrounded myself in all things Mom. And I let myself feel it all. I sobbed, I screamed, I laughed, I slept…all of it surrounded by the essence of her. I had nowhere to be and no one who urgently needed me. I just let the feelings flow, and it was very helpful to feeling a tiny bit of control over my deepest emotions. Sometimes the grief hits out of nowhere and you have to respond on the fly, but when you know it’s an important day and feelings will be raw…schedule yourself to fully feel it.
- Nothing really prepares you for the despair of losing someone you love deeply. And just as that settles into your gut, the loneliness comes along too. I had no idea how isolating grief was! We all grieve. It’s a universal emotion, but it’s also so private and personal. You have no choice but to do the hardest days and moments alone. Writing has helped me. My dog has helped me. Being outdoors with my thoughts has helped me. Just know that the extreme feeling of isolation is part of the grief buffet…and maybe everyone should have a great pet or two.
- I will never be the same person I was before I lost my mom, and that is also okay. The love ran really deep, so the hurt also runs deep. She was integral to every aspect of my existence and our family’s interactions for my entire life. I’m learning to live with that Mom-shaped hole in my soul and accept that life, love, and happiness look different to me now. It’s okay to feel permanently changed. It isn’t so much about healing and getting back to who I was before losing her. It’s more about finding a way forward that holds her tightly in my heart and lets me keep living.
- My days felt very dark and ugly as we started the walk of grief. I found that giving myself small moments of beauty and peace helped me through those days. For me that meant surrounding myself with J. White paintings, reading Mary Oliver’s poetry, cooking my daughters’ favorite foods for family dinners, enjoying fancy coffee drinks, snuggling with my grandson, going to the gym, taking a yoga class…just making sure that I had one really good thing in every day to keep me centered and moving forward. It was a necessary form of self-care…learning to love and care for myself in new ways.
At the beginning of this journey last year when we had no idea how difficult things were going to be, Mom whispered to me, “Love will get us through.” One year on from her passing, that’s something I still think about every day. I look for the love all around me, and I try to create it in places where we need a little more. I try to remember that we were created from love, and we are supposed to share it abundantly in this world. I hold on to the belief that deep grief is part of loving someone with your whole heart. I cherish what it felt like to be loved by my sweet mama, and what a gift it was to love her from my first breath to her last one.
In the beginning, the end, and everything in between, it’s the only thing that matters. Love will get us through, Mom.
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Dear Mom,
I know it has been awhile since I’ve written, and I hope you will forgive me. I’ve spent a whole lot of time these past several months focusing inward to try to find my way forward. It has been a difficult, but rewarding journey, and I feel better able to face the Very Hard Days that are on our doorstep. My circle is extremely small, but it’s the most amazing people who surround me right now. I know you’ve guided me on this path and to these people. Thank you, Mama. ❤ I cherish the moments of clarity, calm, joy, and beauty in ways I couldn’t before, and I am so grateful to be living fully in those moments with my people.
This grief thing. It amazes me how time still feels so strange. Has it really been a year since the world turned upside down? As we celebrate your birthday this week, I can’t help but reflect back to last year’s birthday…as we geared up to fight the damn cancer. I’m so sorry we didn’t see the path that was unfolding, Mom. I just hope you always, always felt the love and light that surrounded you. That surrounds you still. We still can’t understand how we ever managed to let you go.
Somehow in all that crush of awfulness, we still found ways to laugh and love, even on the devastating days. I promise we are still finding the ways. Listen extra hard on your birthday so you can hear us all singing to you, and you can hear Jonah toasting to you being TWO!
Your birthday will be a Very Hard Day. Mother’s Day was one of those too, but honestly, it was Father’s Day that did me in. It has been such a challenge to watch Dad try to find his footing in the vast absence of you. He tells us every day how beautiful you were and how much he loved your life together. You two had such a gentle way of loving and caring for each other, and he misses you with his whole heart. I know you watch over him, so if you could send a little Celia magic into his awareness, we would be forever grateful.
Amy could use some Celia magic too. Her big beautiful heart just cries out for you, and there is nothing we can do to fill the space that you filled for her, Mama. We’ve seen you at work on her path as well, but there are still deep spaces of sadness in her that we can’t seem to reach. No matter how much we grew up, we always still needed you. Amy needs you a little extra as we head into these Very Hard Days.
I know you are so proud of Eilish’s accomplishments and being the most amazing mom, and I hope you laugh heartily at Jonah’s daily escapades! I also know you love watching sweet Emelia’s travel and life adventures. They are the most gorgeous and accomplished young women, and they are so happy in their lives. I see so much of you in both of them, and best of all, they see it too. I hope you feel how our hearts completely overflow when we talk about you. There is just something magical about mothers and daughters.
I don’t know if there is a way grief is supposed to look, but I imagine our ebbs and flows of sadness, carrying on gratefully in your honor, talking to you about all the things, and wishing to see you every night in our dreams is pretty standard. One year on has brought us to a place where the pain isn’t so raw, but it somehow feels more defined and permanent. I can dance around the ache of missing you, but there are still days that take me to my knees.
I’m starting to understand that I will never stop doing that dance, Mama. Sometimes I can anticipate the cues, and other times they hit me from nowhere. I’m trying to be strong enough to just face whatever the day holds, and maybe that is exactly where I should be at one year on. Even so, I would give anything for one more hug, one more I love you, or one more moment in your presence. Whether it’s one year on or a thousand, I will always wish that we could have stayed in our beautiful life together just a little longer.
Love you forever, Mom. Happy Birthday. I promise I will write again soon.
Xoxo,
Bethy
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I am having a hard day. I know that grief is not linear, and I know that it manifests in strange ways. All my emotions are stuck in my throat today, and I’m teetering between something that feels like deep depression or an anxiety attack. A truly awesome feeling for my brain to overanalyze! I’m trying to just sit with the feelings, but they are really threatening to overwhelm right now. So I decided to write.
I woke up this morning thinking about Jesus. Not a bit unusual. I love thinking about Jesus and his earthly encounters. I love imagining the Three Wise Men bringing a puppy to Bethlehem, and what kind of puppy that would be. I love thinking about the people he must have randomly encountered that didn’t make the Gospels and imagine how he interacted with them. I believe so strongly that my walk is to emulate the love and kindness that he radiated, and I strive to be that light in people’s path. In my daily encounters with people from all walks of life, I try to imagine which of these people or situations Jesus would have abandoned, and then I try to be the face of Jesus’ love for those people. <for the record, there are some folks at a rental car place in Hawaii that would have frustrated Jesus, I’m pretty sure, but he wouldn’t abandon them> It’s all about the love. I know that with every fiber of my being.
In keeping with sharing the love, I wake up every day and pin my heart to my sleeve. Right now that heart is broken…I am not sure how to manage all the feelings. I am trying to recognize and live from this newfound home…the “Land of Sad” as I have started calling it. Everything that we knew as normal changed. We were cruising along at an altitude where we knew the best speed, currents, and view, and suddenly our altitude dropped and brought a whole new set of considerations. I don’t know how to navigate the most basic emotions at this new altitude right now. I’m impatient. I’m unfocused. I’m impulsive. I’m on edge. I’m weepy. I’m numb. I feel all the instability swirling around in my brain, and at times swear it is going to take me down. I don’t know how I’m supposed to return to the Bethy who loved so big and freely when it all hurts. That broken heart on my sleeve can’t withstand the bruises the world delivers so regularly. I don’t know how to keep loving big when I know the end result is an awful hole in my world.
I am reading everything I can find right now about grief and mourning, but I ended up returning to an old favorite, Anne Lamott, who wrote, “You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
I’m still very much in the broken leg stage. I am not even sure if healing has really started. My emotions are still so raw, and I feel sometimes like I haven’t even actually accepted that Mom is gone. Seeing pictures, listening to recordings, being among her things…it all feels very surreal that she isn’t coming back for birthday dinners and play time with Jonah. I don’t know how to move away from this stage, and I feel like I’m absolutely useless at helping my Dad or anyone else who crosses my path. How am I supposed to be light and a face for love when I am falling apart inside?
I am reflecting tonight on what “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” must mean. To me, the comfort doesn’t come in moving through the grief, it comes in knowing that through all the pain, heartbreak, and suffering that come in this world, we stand in unending love. In Mom’s final days from diagnosis to death, love was the only thing that kept us going. It was in us all, and we could feel that love surrounding us. God’s perfect love. Right now I am having a hard time feeling it, but I’m praying that I will feel grace, peace, and love in my tomorrows just as strongly as I felt them in my life before and the days leading to Mom’s passing.
At the end of this Very Hard day, I’m searching…I’m hoping to feel the love, and I’m listening for the music in the hopes of dancing imperfectly again in this life. ❤
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The world keeps on turning, and Dad and I have managed to re-enter our lives at home without Mom. I will be spending weekends with him in Yankton for the foreseeable future, mostly because I really love our time together. The undercurrent is always there… knowing that we have walked every step of this whole thing with Mom right beside each other. We can talk about things if we choose to, or we can be in silence, and everything in between. It’s very comforting to just be in the same space. I am so grateful for the moments of peace we are finding in our time together. He misses her so very much. <we all do>
Amy and I ‘celebrated’ our birthday over the weekend, and it was just the strangest and emptiest feeling to wake up on that day and not have Mom there. We have told and retold the story of our complicated birth sooooo many times over the years, and I know that despite the complications and fear that accompanied our arrival in this world, the day we were born was one the most joyful days of my parents’ lives. Our family has always loved huge and celebrated life’s moments <big and small> together. It was so disconcerting not to hear her laugh or feel her arms around me. Many friends said the “firsts” are the worst, so I hope the pain subsides with time. I don’t ever want to forget the escapades and special family time that A & B’s arrival day brought to our family. How lucky am I to have lived this story?
Dad keeps his walks going, so if you are seeing him out and about walking in Yankton, be sure to say hello! He walks and he thinks, and he enjoys chatting with friends when he is out on his neighborhood jaunts. I’m doing yoga for grief support, some reading and exercising, but honestly, I’m doing a terrible job of standing in the pain and working through it. I recognize that I will need some solitude and a lot of crying to keep moving in my grief journey. I wish life allowed for that! #workingonit
Jonah asked me this weekend if Gramma Celia was having a tea party with God up in Heaven, and if they were sharing cookies. I kind of love the idea of Mom sipping tea and eating scones with our Heavenly Father. I think a lot about how this profound loss has challenged me in my faith and my life. There is no question that my faith has deepened. Words on the page or in the abstract came to life through this entire experience, and understanding how Spirit is within us all has been extremely powerful.
I’ve always told mothers-to-be that there is an amazing moment once the bebe is born where all the pain and chaos blurs away and it feels like God himself hands you that little life. I now know that in the final moments of life, when all the pain and chaos blurs away, it feels like God himself holds that last, trembling breath in His hand. These are such incredibly sacred spaces to occupy, and I am forever changed by being present in those moments. I felt the Spirit that binds us all, and I know that in every moment Love surrounds us.
So at this point in the journey, I think I’m the textbook picture of grief and mourning. My sad heart is so full of gratitude for the gorgeous tapestry that has been woven with all the threads of people, experiences, and memories in my life. While it was hard to come home to our physical space without Mom in it, I feel strength in knowing that she is Home, sipping tea with the Big Guy and waiting to celebrate all of our arrivals in the Next. One day at a time…we will all find our way Home. ❤
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I know it is a standard question between people as we greet one another, but I struggle with how to answer that question these days. The honest answer is, “Not very well, you see my world burned down about 6 weeks ago and I’m left with this gaping hole in the middle of my life that could swallow up me and my family at any time.” That is kind of a conversation killer, so I usually just say, “Hanging in there.” And we nod and move on.
Through losing my mom, It has been glaringly apparent that we are terrible at grieving in America 2023. Nobody knows what to say, so many times they say nothing at all. I will admit that has surprised me a bit. It seems especially when it’s so simple to send a text or a quick Facebook message that it shouldn’t be so hard to find a few words to say to ease the pain. While silence from some corners of my life has surprised me, I have learned in a powerful way, that the right people will find you. The angels are there! I have been deeply moved by people from unexpected corners of my life who have reached out in sincere love and concern to share advice, offer love or a prayer, or just to say, “I’m thinking about you.” People from all walks of life, some I’ve known well, some from days long past, and others who didn’t know me at all…they have found me. I will never be able to adequately express my gratitude for all those little reminders of the goodness that surrounds me and my family.
It is also apparent that our culture doesn’t have much patience for those who are grieving. I think the norm is that someone passes away early in the week, funeral is held on Friday or Saturday, and everyone is back to work the following Monday. WHAT?!? I just can’t fathom how we operate like that. I realize that the world keeps turning, bills need to be paid, staying busy keeps your mind off things….etc. etc. But there was a point historically where people dressed in black for two years to signal they had suffered a profound loss. Two years!! And we just go back to work in a week and carry on? Here at six weeks on, I am still moving unpredictably between numbness and disbelief, sobbing uncontrollably for a good long stretch, total brain fog, and feeling like I can never do enough to honor my mother so I had better get going with things. All of those moods can occur within 10 seconds, then boomerang back through them in a different order, and I am just not okay! Instability with my emotions is the norm right now. I recognize it, and I’m trying to stand in those moments and work through them. <note to an impatient world…it’s going to be awhile…chill out>
I have been extremely fortunate to have stayed with my dad during this period following Mom’s death. That sweet dad of mine loved Celia with his whole heart for 65 years of his life. It was a heartbreak I can never put into words to watch the two of them maneuver through her diagnosis, her illness, and her passing in such a short amount of time. They have always challenged each other in such beautiful and important ways, so to watch their life’s dance change to the knowledge of separation and loss…I just will never be the same after witnessing it. There is pain in this life that defies description, and the final days between them gutted us all.
So how are we doing? Dad and I have walked the beach 1000 times over these days with an exuberant dog in the lead. Sometimes we talk, and sometimes we just walk in silence. At night, we sit out under the stars and talk about the constellations and the moon. Mom is in every moment with us. Sometimes as a comforting presence, but also reminding us how much we miss her. The loneliness and longing for a hug or her laugh…anything tangible…it’s still so overwhelming. As we move past this really early stage of raw emotion, I hope that we are able to find our bearings. Our return to the SnowDak will mark the first time that Dad and I have separated since Mom’s initial diagnosis. I imagine that is going to have super effects on my already unstable emotions!
If you run into me or my Dad in the coming days, feel free to offer up hugs and “It’s good to see you” messages. Please don’t be alarmed if I burst into tears with no warning. <dad will play it cool…me, not so much> We need your patience while we sort through losing this woman who was the center of our universe. Thank you to our angels who love and lift us in such beautiful ways. We are new to this journey and need your wisdom to get us through the rough spots that still seem to come so often. I pray the day will eventually come when you can ask, “How are you doing?” and we can say, “we have found peace.”
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I’m sorry to hear about your mom You are so lucky to all be together Radiation should improve quality of life; Look at my beautiful daughters. Bloodwork is good, we are holding steady Her temp is 101 something is going on How’s your dad doing; Hello sun in my face. Hello, you who made the morning and spread it over the fields. Do you want to take her to the ER or have an ambulance take her She probably won’t survive sepsis She probably will survive sepsis; There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. The side effects of additional treatment outweigh the benefits I think we have about a month; Please…I just want to go home. Silence <how did we get here> Please let us know if there is anything we can do; Do you think there is a doorway to Heaven? Do you think it is wide enough for all of us? I can’t imagine my tomorrows without her; Where’s my Jonah? Time for your pain meds Aren’t you excited to dance with Jesus; Look at my beautiful granddaughters. You have to swallow the meds, Mom; Silence <waiting with Spirit> You are a beautiful child of God It’s okay to go King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. Hallelujah, Hallelujah! Mother….Mother. Separation is an illusion We are all right here Thank you for our beautiful life together; Soar…Soar, Mama! Silence <touching her last tear> -
It seems so strange not talking to you about things, so I thought I would just say hello and catch you up. Let’s start with the obvious…we miss you more than we could ever put into words. There wasn’t a decision made, a conversation had, or a memory discussed that you didn’t weigh in on. You always wanted to know what we were up to, and we were happy to oblige. I miss talking to you so much about Jonah and the girls. And Henry. And the birds. And what topics they discussed on 60 Minutes and CBS Sunday Morning. And all the rest of it.
As you know, I’m staying with Dad for now. I wish I could report that he’s doing alright, but he’s going through the motions right now. You two always functioned as a team, and he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. I can see the sadness in him. He carries it every minute of every day. Even when we walk and talk, I can feel the weight of deep loss he is carrying. He just loved you so much, Mama. He still feels like we might come into the house and you will be there waiting for him, and he still wonders out loud if you will go dancing with him. My heart aches knowing how he misses you and knowing that I can’t make that pain go away.
I can’t change things for him emotionally, but I am making sure he is eating right, hydrating, and exercising. I can sometimes get him to eat a little extra pie or ice cream if I’m sneaky about it. Henry spends a lot of time watching over him, and our walks are certainly more eventful with the euphoric dog leading the way. Every morning I want to show you our sunrise pictures and have you declare the newest picture the BEST one ever. I imagine that you are right there with us in the sunrises already though, and that is comforting in a way.
The girls are doing their things, and I’m so incredibly grateful that you knew they were brilliant, beautiful, and really happy before everything went wrong in our world. You knew a thing or two about raising strong women, and we are so fortunate that you sprinkled your will and wisdom into our lives. You also taught me how important it was to fall in love with your adult children, and I think of that every time I’m in the presence of my daughters. Family really is the most important thing, so to build a world that celebrates the love throughout every stage of life is pretty cool. I also think you have some kind of herding dog DNA back in your family bloodline, because honestly, you were never completely happy until we were all together in your presence.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a song, or read a passage, or smelled a flower, or eaten something delicious and wanted to tell you about it. I hope that you are sensing the prayers I send your way with little messages about geckos, banana cream pie, Heliconia flowers, and Bruddah Iz. I swear there are things every hour that I want to discuss with you, and it hurts my heart when I can’t just dial you up or snuggle in next to you. Please pay close attention when Dad and I are by the ocean or under the stars, Mama. We are always sending you our little love messages, and I imagine you are far out beyond where my eyes can see but where you can feel those heart songs being sent your way.
I was thinking about the humpback whales this week when there was a news story about Yo-Yo Ma going sailing on Hokulea and playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” for the humpback whales off the Big Island. Perhaps you will remember a morning in Maui not long ago when I was playing whale songs to awaken you all for sunrise? Dad laughed. You and Emelia didn’t. But humpback whales create a different song for every creature they meet! They have songs for other kinds of whales, one for dolphins, and they even tried to create a song so they could communicate with a dog. They change their music so the other creatures can understand them.
I think that’s what you and I need to do. We need to change our song now so that we can hear each other in a new way. You are the most musically gifted person I know, so I can’t wait to hear what you come up with…and in the meantime, I will be singing whale songs under the stars for you.
Please hurry if you can. I’m sure you have a lot going on with all our beloveds who were waiting for you in Heaven, but it sure would be nice to know that we can still sing to each other in our own way. I miss you more than I can say. I think I told you a million times, but I will tell you a million more…I love you, Mom. Thank you for loving us and for giving us this beautiful life. I’ll be waiting. ❤
xoxoxo Bethy
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One month ago today we said farewell to our sweet mama. It is honestly hard to say whether time is flying by or standing still. Time as we knew it stopped making sense during the entire experience of losing her. Days were measured in the timing for administering medications or checking her vitals. Hours seemed like days, and weeks felt like minutes. It still feels that way one month later.
In an experience that was full of awful moments, it is safe to say the last day was the worst. None of us want to personally endure pain and struggle, but I swear it was far more difficult to witness it with Mom than it would have been to endure it ourselves. Her struggle that day eventually lessened, and when she passed into Spirit she was at peace and surrounded by gentle love. For that we are grateful.
Shortly after her death, we made the decision to get to Hawaii together as a family, and that has been a good call. We are in familiar places filled with strong memories of Celia’s beautiful presence. This is a second home to our family, and the change of routine and scenery has been good for our souls. Nature is a healing force, and it helps as we are gradually trying to find our way out of the numb, sad, and lonely spaces that are still so pervasive. There are glimmers of hope, but the weight of sadness still largely controls our days. We know it will improve with time, so for now, we are just trying to take small steps forward with every sunrise.
People keep saying, “you need to process your grief.” I feel at this point I need more detailed instructions on how that works. BE REALLY SPECIFIC. Dad and I walk the beach and talk, or sit under the stars and talk, and to be sure, we are trying to process things. It still catches me off guard when I go into the house and she’s not there, or I want to tell her about something and realize I can’t. Those are gut punch moments, and all processing ceases while I teeter on the edge of collapse. Mom had an enormous presence in all of our lives, and her absence is glaring right now.
I know there are many milestones ahead, and I know from the wisdom of many friends that those will always be difficult days. So many people have reached out with suggestions for these raw and painful early days of sitting with our sadness. There just aren’t enough ways to express my gratitude for those who have bravely shared their stories. Grief is universal, but our experiences with loss are deeply personal. The vulnerability and love which so many have shared has truly changed my world. We can lift each other up on the road we are traveling together. Even during the pain…maybe especially during the pain…we can pass on our love and light to others on the journey. Love will get us through.
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My mother’s funeral was one month ago, and in an attempt to ‘process my grief’ I need to write.
Yes…I could just keep a journal and never share a single thought with anybody except my closest friends and my dog, but putting it out there for others to read gives me some accountability for doing the hard, hard work of mourning. Writing also gave my family the most beautiful, genuine connections to people as we maintained Caringbridge and Facebook accounts during our family’s journey through the loss of our sweet mama.
I am a random thinker, and it clears my mind when I can just get words onto a page. During Mom’s illness, my sister and I took turns staying up overnights to watch over her. On my awake nights, I usually sat and wrote Caringbridge posts to clear my brain from the day. Switching gears to this blog, please know these will not be highly polished posts, but they will be from my heart. I’m not trying to make anything pretty or sanitized. While there have been beautiful moments in all of this, there have been many agonizing ones as well. Things feel pretty raw and unsettled right now. We are all traumatized by our loss and trying to figure out what our tomorrows will be without her.
Please share your thoughts and comments with me. We have been deeply affected by the kindness so many have shown through this ordeal. When we were at rock bottom as a family, we had so many angels on earth lifting us in prayer and carrying us through the days. The love we have seen has been so deep and remarkable. We will carry it with us forever.
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To Live In This World... 