It’s been 28 years. Wow. Is that possible? There are moments though, when I am mysteriously transported to that hospital room again. I remember it—thick with fear and fluorescent lighting, and the bustling activity around us as the world simultaneously seemed to stop. Back then, we didn’t say goodbye. Since then, I’ve said it a lot. Can you hear my goodbyes? There are also those stretches when I feel the heavy weight of time and distance.
I am nearly the same age you were when you breathed your last—just 51.
I have forgotten what your laughter sounds like. I think I hear it in my own children’s voices. You would have loved them. They don’t know you. The stories I share cannot do you justice. But I bring you up often, even if they tire of hearing it. I love you for them and I will love them for you. Occasionally, I get flashes of you when I see my oldest son. He looks and behaves more like you than I do. He is blessed. And I am grateful. How can I thank you enough for all that you handed me? I had a front row seat to heroic, selfless motherhood.
With innate grace, you loved me unconditionally, especially through my teenage years. I never got the chance to apologize for wising you wouldn’t sing so loudly in church. I’m sorry. You would belt out Immaculate Mary so beautifully that those in the pews around us would remark, “What an amazing singing voice!” Instead of being filled with pride, I boiled with embarrassment and shot you dirty looks. But, you could not hold back that singing anymore than God can hold back His love for us. If only I could take back those icy stares… I sang the very same song with exuberance this morning. Full of gusto or not, I got dad’s signing voice. I smiled behind my mask thinking of you hitting the high notes with perfect vibrato.
You were an amazing writer who left me your journals full of wisdom, humor, and heartache. Never any despair though. Such a treasure. I turn to them for silky, comforting words and phrases. You offer hope in the trials and the mundaneness of your life. It has informed my life as wife and mother. Each year your reflections take on new meaning for me. When I open the pages and peruse your perfect teacher’s handwriting, I know these were meant as love letters to your children. This is mine to you, Mom. But I am not half the writer you were. I agonize over just the right combination of words. Your writing came effortlessly. But not many people even knew that about you. I like having an inside track.
Would you believe I have fully embraced the Christian faith that you so lovingly taught me? It is a link as real as the cord that once connected us, nurturing me with your lifeblood. This connection, however, can never be cut. You planted seeds in my life that you never had the opportunity to witness come to full bloom, but that never stopped you from planting, again and again. I hope you know what an amazing gardener you were. I am who I am because of your love. As long as I breathe, I will strive to carry on that invaluable legacy.
I’ve heard it explained that the barrier between the living and the dead is no more than a thin veil. That seems right to me. Today, I have my hand held out against that veil where I know you will find it.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Your loving daughter,
And for all of you who are grieving the loss of a mother today, I am sorry. Even the veil will eventually pass.
*Photo by Helen Ngoc N. on Unsplash
4 thoughts on “Happy Mother’s Day Mom, From This Side of the Veil”
A beautiful tribute to your mom!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Mary Jo, I’ve only been without my mom for 4 years and luckily, my children knew her. You have written, beautifully, in your tribute and the last paragraph especially touched my heart and my experience with her being on the other side of the veil. I can’t wait to see her again! Thank you and God bless you!
Thank you, Shirley! Your mom must have been a real bright light considering how wonderfully you turned out. God bless her and all deceased mommas!