Late Night Visitor – Grief Takes a Holiday
I feel like I have much to say, as well as nothing to say, because today is Mother’s Day. For the past 26 years of known infertility, Mother’s Day is already a hard day for me. Dreams of popsicle sticks glued togther to spell I Love You, or simply glued together to frame a picture of my child, remain dreams. For several years, I looked on with a silent pain in my heart when my sister and nieces received such gifts from their children. In all honesty, not every Mother’s Day had me down. I was excited to visit with my mom and honor her for all her sacrafices she made so my siblings, and I, could have the best lives that we had growing up.
This is my first Mother’s Day without my mom. I see posts on Facebook honoring mothers who are in heaven, and some have been there for a long time. My situation is not any different; it just has become real. I want to fade into the woodwork, or dig a hole, crawl in, and come back out when it is over. This Mother’s Day will go in the books as the hardest one I have ever experienced.
I went to the cemetery yesterday. My parents are buried in a mausoleum–mom’s casket in with dad’s. The wall is sealed tight and bears their names along with their their year of birth and death. They are located in a pretty setting with a little sidewalk wrapping itself around the building. I sat in a folding chair, on that sidewalk, in front of their grave marker. I placed a fresh yellow rose in the vase affixed to the wall. Mom and I often enjoyed Dairy Queen Dilly Bars together on her back porch in the summer, so I stopped to Dairy Queen. The Dilly Bar wasn’t as enjoyable for a couple of reasons: 1) it was cloudy and around 55 degrees outside, and 2) I was the only one indulging. As the Hospice social worker quizzed mom about her life, she asked her what her favorite drink was. Without skipping a beat, mom answered, “A highball.” Mom’s favorite drink was whiskey and ginger-ale over ice. Since people were around at the cemetery, I discretely poured myself a drink and raised a toast to her as well.
I love you and miss you, MommyO. May your vision be perfect so you can see the face of Jesus. May the light of Jesus shine brightly on you to warm you. No aches, pains, or tears in Heaven. Enjoy your earned reward as a Precious Child of God and heiress to the Kingdom.
Although grief is still visiting, he takes a holiday.
2 Corinthians 2:4 (NIV)
4 For I wrote you out of great distress and anguish of heart and with many tears, not to grieve you but to let you know the depth of my love for you.
Late Night Visitor series: