My father sat in the pew of a church in Philadelphia with a slip of paper in his hands. The cold encamped outside was a far cry from the mosquito hot shores of South Africa. Three years. He had brought his young family Stateside for three years to add a Masters of Divinity to his medical degree. Before Internet, cell phones, or frequent fliers, three years was a full time commitment.
We lived in 13 different houses in the first year alone. My brother, Joshua, was born in the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. I experienced Kindergarten, Fourth of July, and the cold, frosted beauty of snow angels. We drove on the wrong side of the road and loved everything.
One missions Sunday at church the pastor proposed a practical exercise in praying outside the familiar. Everyone in the congregation of hundreds placed their name on a slip of paper and into a collection bin. The sermon followed and then everyone dug deep and took back a different slip with a different name.
My dad thrilled at the idea of a name from a far-flung land he could invest in and go to battle over in prayer. He tells me often and often about his profound disappointment when he opened the small slip of crumpled paper and recognized my mother’s name.
In that sea of hundreds of people her name had drifted back to him, a wisp of impossible blown back into his hands. And all he felt at the time was let down.
Three years.
Three years in Zululand and then three years in Pennsylvania. I was six when we returned to the land of thatch roof houses, blood gold sunsets and the hadida. My mom was the center of the loud music, poems, literature, and youth group I grew up in. And one Friday night I was called out of the hot core of my teenage self and into the dark car where my father tried to tell my brothers and I that the world was about to change.
We listened with eyes streaming in the moonlight and one-by-one climbed out of our seat belts and into his lap. And then the praying began in earnest.
We clutched at her name as it began to slip through our fingers. We traveled hours to spend time with that name down long hospital hall ways and always, after each visit, begged just one more day with that name.
We got 18 months. Which brought my total to 18 years and one week.
I’ve lived eighteen years and more than half my life since then. I turned thirty eight last week.
And read a hundred stories of moms and the ever widening, deepening, enveloping ripples they wrap around daughters and families.
The courage that flutters behind mothers like so many torn and tattered, worn and battered super hero capes.
No matter if they’re a loud source of life in the heart of their families or have been gone for years. No matter if they’re grown old and gray with children living in far flung states or just around the corner.
The heart of a mother knows no age, as a blog reader reminded me last week.
September second is a different kind of birthday for me.
Twenty one years without my mother.
I feel her beat hard in my heart and loud in the lives of the three grandchildren she never met.
I read her in your words as you testify to the impact of your own mothers.
These unsung heroes. These brownie makers, and make-it-all-turn out OK women.
I love you for your words and your passion and your deep love for the women who make us daughters.
Thank you.
And there is a super hero cape now making it’s way to Talitha’s mama. The best way I know to celebrate these two days of being born my mother’s daughter. Talitha – give your mama a big hug from all of us. We celebrate her today:
Talitha, comment #64 said: Momma was always there. She just went through stage 4 breast cancer last year and again, what a pillar of strength. Her faith is strong even when her body is broken down. All of this while walking through depression, clinical, life-long depression. I wish she could see what others who know her see: a woman who has overcome again and again and who has given a living legacy to her children and now grandchildren as well.
Incredible. Beautifully Written.
Thank you for sharing.
“September second is a different kind of birthday for me.
Twenty one years without my mother.
I feel her beat hard in my heart and loud in the lives of the three grandchildren she never met.”
” WOW… Today is my birthday and it has been 24 years for me. Thank you for sharing something that only someone who has gone through this can feel. Your words meant so much.
So precious and written so beautifully.
Begged just one more day with that name, my heart exactly. Two nights ago, sitting on the front steps of the home I have known for 55 years for the last time, my heart wanted one more day with my mom and dad. So many wonderful memories. The tears wouldn’t stop and neither with the heart of gratitude to the Lord for blessing our family with two parents who loved us and shared the love of the Lord with us. Thank you for your beautiful words.
My mama died unexpectedly on NYE 2010. It was so hard! Yesterday I was scrubbing my kitchen floor on my hands and knees and my son came in talk as I was working. I leaned back to brush the hair out of my face and I was back with her, only I was the overly inquisitive 7 year old and she was the one scrubbing floors and brushing her hair aside. That memory in that moment took my breath away with the pain. I miss her every single day, but sometimes it comes in a sucker punch and leaves me an emotional mess for a little while. People told me in the beginning that I’d get over it and I hated that so much. How do you get over it? My best friend’s mother lost her mom at a young age too and she heard someone tell me that. She pulled me aside and said, “You NEVER get over it. You will miss her everyday and wish that she were here, but it does get easier. It gets manageable somehow. I’ve missed my Mama everyday for over 30 years, but it’s not always as hard as it is now.” I appreciated her telling me that so much. I was so glad that someone was so real about the loss. Your words are beautiful. Thank you!
Sending wishes of love for your day…forever remembered…
My day is February 9. It will be 3 years since the sudden passing of my mom…
Lisa-Jo, thank you, as always, for showing your heart, so open and beautiful, here. You encourage us to *feel* and not run away from the tough stuff. My husband’s mom died when he was twenty, after battling leukemia for eight years. I never met her, but her story lives on, woven into not only the lives she touched when she was alive, but even after, as her life is held up, celebrated, and treasured. Her life is beautiful. I cannot wait to meet her. And I can only try to imagine the moment when you see your mother face to face again, and she sees your husband and wraps her arms around your beautiful babies, as she once wrapped her arms around you. Oh, the day she will see you and get to do that again! Bless you, sister.
I am in that right now, praying for one more day, one more month, one more year. (Stage 4 cancer for my mom). I am so thankful for the years I’ve received with her and talk with my husband wondering how I will deal with it eventually. I see that look on his face once in a while, especially around the anniversary of his mom’s death (when he was 18)… but he says the same thing – it is never gone, but it’s easier with time.
My heart goes out to you this week! September 2nd is hard day for me as well, as one of my older brothers was killed in a car accident 12 yrs ago on that day. Now as a mother of 5 small children it some times breaks my heart that he never got to meet them and that they don’t know him. But I fully believe he is watching us from above and I know your mother is as well and she must be amazingly proud of the woman you have become!
Yup. I get this. September 22 will be two years for me. Two years down, too many to go. May the God of all comfort continue to comfort you with each passing day as we edge ever nearer to eternity with Him.
This was beautifully written. And to all the mums and daughters sharing their love and supporting each other in the comments … a big hug right back at you. Who feels it knows it…and we need to share our light and love with each other.
Reading with tears escaping my stern admonitions to myself to keep it under control. Thank you so much for this beautiful glimpse into your heart. September 24th will be two years without my mother-in-law. My other mother. I still miss her overwhelmingly on a regular basis, and I am glad to hear that even though it never goes away, it will be easier to take. And I dread the day I have to kiss my own mother goodbye for the last time.
It will be 18 years this next January, and I remember it like it was yesterday. This brought so much of that emotion, and the same thoughts that have been screaming through my head the last few years as I was my daughter grow up. The only comfort that I can bring is that, now, I know that she is always with me, and I don’t have to use a phone or email or social network to talk to her. She can hear me, and wrap me in her love every day. Love and Blessings to you on such a hard day.
Thank for sharing so beautifully and for sharing Talitha’s story about her mother. I’m just now learning and accepting in my heart that even in my own mother’s weaknesses and failings, she was teaching me things I could learn no other way. She is a gift of God to me, and I am choosing to learn from her and value her even in my disappointments about her. Mothers truly do impact us in ways that we may never be able to adequately express. Thanks again for sharing your story.