eight.

Eight.  It's the number that proves nothing in this world is a matter of chance.  Our days are numbered from the moment we take our first breath.  My mom entered this world on September 17th.  She left this world on September 9th.  8 days separate those dates on the calendar.  

It's also the number of years I've now known this world without her. On paper 8 is a small number. For me it represents the thousands of moments I've wanted nothing more than to hear her voice on the phone.  Or to watch her long, beautiful fingers bring a painting to life.  Then there's the big ones. Trying on wedding dresses without her excited laughter.  Wedding pictures that don't contain her. Long, hard labors without her back rubs.  My sons only knowing her as 'Grandma Mindy' from pictures.  The days with inconsolable babies, both of us in tears, not being able to hear "you can do this".  

September 8th was the last date I knew this world with my mom in it.  It's the last time I went to bed without my companion: loss. The last day that I didn't pray to meet her in my dreams.  Fear was given credibility the next day. Fear of living the nightmare again.  

God has done amazing things in my life in those 8 years, without a doubt.  I vividly remember at one point, crying out, telling Him I was tired of people being subtracted from my life.  I was ready for addition.  That prayer has been answered, and then some!  But, the void remains.  The pain starts as a tightness in my chest, then moves its way down, and hits like a punch in the gut.  The air escapes my lungs and the tears begin.  I am marked by grief.  This world will always feel confusing and unfamiliar to me without her.  

Maintaining

I'm just on the other side of 5 years since my Mom passed away and I'm still learning everyday how grief works.  Since becoming a mom myself a year ago, the pain of not having my own Mom here has intensified.  Through my counseling I was able to learn how to function and live on a day-to-day basis as a single person.  But this new venture into parenthood has left me feeling lost once again.  Parents are especially supportive during major life transitions (going to college, getting married, starting a family) and going through 2 of these in the last 2 years has made that missing piece much more apparent.  As I learn how to mother my own son, I see these roles that we take on.  I'm his protector, comforter, nurturer, teacher.  Even as an adult, it's difficult to lose the person that embodies those roles in your life.  I don't know if we ever stop needing our Moms.  God created a unique connection between women and their children.  They know us from the moment of conception and in a lot of cases, continue to be the people that know us the best as we grow up.  Most days I'm able to move through these feelings of loss and divert my attention to other things.  But some days are still just sad.  Some days my tears are painful and I feel overcome by the wave of grief that washes over me.  As usual, C.S. Lewis has a much more eloquent way of describing this cycle...

“For in grief nothing 'stays put'. One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often -- will it be for always? -- how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, 'I never realized my loss till this moment'? The same leg is cut off time after time.” 
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Jane

Whenever I start to feel the desire to write again, I usually have thoughts swirling around in my brain for a few days before anything goes down on 'paper'. This has been the case, once again, for the last week or so in preparation for writing this post. One of my dearest friends is having to walk thru the same fire I endured 4 years ago. This is another one of those times that everyone is left wondering and asking why? Part of the cruelty of this world is that there is no pattern or system of who dies when. People are plucked from our lives so suddenly that we're left with bewilderment and the reality of what we've always been told; life's not fair. I can't fully express to my dear friend the sense of loss that we all feel or that I know what that gaping hole in her heart feels like...so, I've decided to write down my tribute to her Mom. Words are never enough to wholly describe a person or their life. The things we most often remember are sounds, pictures, or the feelings they gave us. Having said that, I'd like to express as best as possible my memories of Jane.

My first encounter with Jane Rogers was as my 8th grade basketball coach for Milton's feeder team. I was still going to private school at the time so the only girl on the team that I knew was my friend from FCA who was also playing on the team. Jane welcomed us without hesitation. She may have even given us a little too much freedom at practice, which allowed Jenny and I to lie about how many free throws we made and avoid running laps. She always made practice fun and as frustrated as she may have gotten during games, she never once lost her temper with any of us. She would dutifully hold her hand out in the midst of a game for Jenny to spit out her old gum in. As we moved into high school, Jane transitioned from my coach to a regular influence in my life as I spent more and more time at the Rogers house. She made sure to keep the house stocked at all times with our favorite snacks and when she told you to make yourself at home, she truly meant it! Saturday mornings were always greeted with Jane in the kitchen making us cinnamon rolls before we woke up. One night Jane was taking Jenny and I to a restaurant for a double date before we could drive. We were both SO nervous on our way there. Without telling us, Jane took a little detour and pulled into the parking lot of The Cooler ice rink. She parked at the far end of the lot where it overlooked the mall area. She told us to get out and just sit for a few minutes. We sat on the hood of the car and after a little while, Jenny and I gained the confidence we needed and were ready to go. That moment left such an impression on me. It was one of those innate Mom moments when she knew exactly what we needed. She knew that bailing wouldn't be the best thing for us, but she also didn't throw us in the fire before we were ready. We just needed a timeout. My basketball tapes from high school are full of Jane and my Dad fussing at me or Jenny, or yelling at the refs about another bad call, but as embarassing as it was back then, Jenny and I always knew we had the biggest fans in the building. Jerry and Jane deserve some sort of medal for all the trips they took us on. I'm certain they had better things to do than listen to 5 girls sing NSYNC songs all the way to Destin...but they never complained or told us to keep it down. In fact, I'm pretty sure Jane smiled through the whole thing. Jane's happiness came from making other people happy. There's no telling how many nights Jerry and Jane were kept awake into the wee hours of the morning by laughter from dressing up in Jerry's hunting gear, or screams from watching scary movies in the basement. When my mom passed away, the first place I went upon arriving back from Nashville was the Roger's house for dinner. Jane always knew what people needed. And despite having just finished chemo, she insisted on coming down to Florida for my wedding where she promptly spent the weekend in the hospital, but she never thought twice about being there for me. With the types of friendships we've had with each other for going on 17 years, we all kind of shared each other's Moms. Every one of our Moms entrusted the other ones on any given weekend to take care of us like they would. Losing Jane is losing one of my Moms. She gave so much of herself to this world. As a Mom myself now, I'm so grateful to have another example to look to of how to be a selfless wife and mother. Jane left a permanent imprint on my life and I am truly blessed to have known her and been cared for by her.

Closing Doors

As if I needed further proof that Christ knows better than I do, his fingerprints have been all over my career path. Literally two days before my mom passed away, a job opportunity fell through which I had been pursuing for months and was virtually a done deal. I am now incredibly grateful for the day that I was able to pack my bags and go home to be with my Dad without worrying about a return date. For weeks I wrestled with the decision about whether to move back to Alpharetta for good, or return to Nashville. Ultimately I came back to a conversation my Mom and I had about six months after I moved away. She made me promise that if something happened to her or my Dad I wouldn't move back to care of them. My parents have always been ultra supportive of my adventures, and I knew that she would never want me to move home out of obligation. That conversation gave me permission and freedom. I stayed in Alpharetta for two months, returning to Nashville when I felt like both me and Dad were ready. I came back and my life seemed like a blank canvas. Finding my place in this world without my Mom's guidance has been very difficult. I began to feel a sense of urgency that I never had before. The first thing I did was return to school to work towards finally finishing my degree. Next on my list was employment. I was done just working for a paycheck or a neat title on business cards. God led me back to kids. These kids are different though. They're troubled, or "high risk". I don't look like the majority of the teens that I work with on a daily basis. I do however have something significant in common with a lot them. Many of them come from single parent households. Once kids hear my story or find out that I've also lost a parent, we share a bond. Grief is an isolating emotion, but its also a shared experience. My heart is more resilient from what I've been through. My kids have gone through things in a short 13 years that many people won't experience in a lifetime. I think that my story gives my kids hope. I've never been so sure of anything as I am about the fact that these kids are where my heart lies. As much as we pray for God to open doors for opportunities, the doors that He closes can be just as vital.

Fire

The more I've dwelled on this idea of equating grief with fire, the more I have needed to find out about it. Fire was used symbolically and literally throughout the Bible. Christ manifested Himself as a burning bush to Moses. God is described as an 'all consuming fire'. Fire was required to make sacrifices and offerings. For most of my life I was fearful of fire and viewed it solely as a force of destruction. It has an entirely different meaning to me now. It represents renewal. Reshaping. Refining. I've always loved watching glass blowers. The way that the glass melts and is then manipulated into something entirely different is fascinating. Glass is not maleable until it has come in contact with intense heat. Before the day my mom passed away I would classify my heart as hard. Decisions and choices were only about what I thought would serve me the best. My perspective was finite. Enduring the intense heat and pain that followed in the year after my mom's death softened my heart and my will. Everything that I had to hide behind and continue to distract myself from God's whispering was systematically taken away. With each event I would think, "ok, this is it. My heart can't possibly take anymore." The fire became hotter and melted away the things keeping me from becoming who I was created to be. Forest fires are allowed to burn at times because they allow for new growth later. I'm afraid of who I would be now if I hadn't experienced the fire. I'm so thankful that Jesus loves us enough that He uses evil for good and makes everything new.

The uncertainty of later

I heard a quote today that immediately struck me. "There may not be a later". Throughout my day I mentally go through the tasks at hand, and then categorize what needs to be done now and what can be done later. Now, if later doesn't come and my laundry basket is still full or I didn't get the mail, I don't think it will affect anyone's life. But this truth should be paramount when it comes to relationships. We are not guaranteed our next breath. When I talked to my mom briefly as she boarded her ship in Seattle, I had no idea it would be our last conversation. I think if we all experienced a sense of urgency more when it comes to relationships, we would send a quick text, mail a card, return a phone call, make dinner plans, follow through on a promise, resolve an argument. Regret is a nearly impossible emotion to get over. The past cannot be redone. A few days after my mom's memorial service, I received a post card that she had sent to me from Seattle. Now, if I had gotten someone a postcard while on vacation, I would have most certainly not actually mailed it until after I returned home (if even then). My mom didn't though. She made the extra effort to fill it out and send it the day she bought it. I can't express the significance of that act. That postcard might as well be gold to me. I hope that one of my last actions while here on earth is for someone else. My mom felt that urgency and almost always lived everyday as if there wouldn't be a later.

Numb

I now realize that when tragedy occurs, God very mercifully numbs our heart to a certain extent. If we felt the full weight of loss immediately after it happened, I don't know how many of us could get thru the days that follow. These are the days full of funeral arrangements, casseroles, visitors, phone calls, cards and flowers. There are at least 1,000 things that have to be done and checked off the list. This isn't the time to hide in bed all day. For us, this was also the period of time when supports systems for both my father and I began to take shape. I spent hours at my parents' house each day with my dad going thru files, making phone calls, sorting thru my mom's things, following up on emails, teaching him to do laundry, taking care of the cat. At the end of these emotionally exhausting days, I immediately went to my friends. Every night we all ended up at Jenny's house. Katy stocked the house with chips and dip, wine, and jelly bellies. This became my safe haven. After depleting what little emotional resources I had all day long, I went to them and they filled me back up. I also never slept alone for that first 10 days. Somebody was always with me, talking to me until I drifted off to sleep. Those moments with them are so precious to me, and really were the only thing that I had to look forward to at the time. I remember reading them my eulogy the night before my mom's memorial service and they gave me the reassurance and courage that I needed to get up and give it the next day. There was an unspoken agreement between my friends that nobody went to bed every night until I was ready. I didn't grow up with siblings, but it has become very clear to me that God brought each of these friends into my life in order to be there for me when I truly needed them. My mom loved my friends! I really think in her mind, they were all her kids. The thing she loved and cherished the most about them was the way they loved me. I really think my mom knew that if she ever left me on this earth, it would be ok because she would leave me in their hands. They were my anchors, and if they hadn't been there in those days when I was so numb and just getting thru each task at hand, I would have drifted further and further away.