This morning I cleaned out my “Saves” on Facebook, stuff I thought I may read later, there were over 50 various things I considered useful at the time.
Same old same, healing from trauma, posts about family, even more expert recommendations to grow my blog, have my voice heard, write the book, don’t give up…
I deleted almost all. I have to be honest, I am on writerly advice overload.
At the bottom was a note, the Facebook kind, I suppose my idea of blogging before I blogged and it was called 30 Randoms…things I’ve learned since mama died.
It is a list compiled 10 years ago come November.
Much of it is the same.
I suppose the ache began when someone said change your profile pic to your mom’s, one of those FB things that make you either go along or rebel.
I rebelled in a kind of pitiful, mulling over pondering way, my way.
I don’t have a photo I haven’t shared before and the one I have is dated and it doesn’t portray the mama I want to portray.
Grief changes its hold on you over time.
I miss my mama, see the cardinals all the time that say she is near.
I’m afraid though it’s simply not enough. Well meaning people will say oh she sees you, she’s looking down and you stand silent like a big dumb block not replying to their little kind words or something to say remedy.
I believe my mama is in heaven; but, I do not fully understand what it’s like for her there.
Possibly her spirit still lingers near me, possibly it’s my memory and longing for her involvement that manufactures this comfort and assurance for me.
Here we are over 10 years and there’s so much she should know.
Updated here are 30 randoms I’m offering up as prayers to heaven in hopes that someone else up there runs out to find you and you sit together and you laugh and cry happy heavenly tears over what is going on, how we’re doing without you and daddy down here:
1. The grandchildren are something else altogether and individually, they are just enough you to be stubborn and outspoken and often irreverently rebellious in being themselves!
2. We are all still married to the ones you saw us with before you passed away.
3. Baby Brown is due any moment of a very soon day. This will mean three great grands. Our home has a baby room.
4. Your grandsons are strong, just enough cockiness of your daddy cushioned by the gentle handsome ways of our daddy.
5. I left my job that was destroying my health. I am an artist. I get “pissy” and I’m sure have a certain look when someone says a painting is “cute”.
6. I am a writer. I will be going by “grandma” just like you and I will be helping my daughter with her baby, just like you.
7. I am less afraid but still prefer to stay hidden.
8. I left the church that made me feel I’d never be enough.
9. I sit every morning with my Bible, a pencil and a memorandum book.
10. When I’m sad or angry or anxious, I clean the whole house, rearrange stuff.
11. People call me an open book. I reply with only certain stories.
12. I reunited with Melanie and revisited the times I fell apart and she helped you and daddy hold me together.
13. I regret going home the night you passed away.
14. I understand you probably wanted it this way.
15. I love Jesus the way you lived it, love everyone the best you can, not more than you should to those who love themselves so much they don’t need yours.
16. Be kind to your husband, as he ages you become everything to him.
17. Love a dog, this love will sustain you.
18. Love food, not its control over you.
19. Delicious things are only delicious if savored not embellished or used to satiate empty bottomless places.
20. Accept God’s grace.
21. Being pitiful is not pretty or permitted.
22. Wear more red. Paint your toenails red, learn to wear a hat.
23. Don’t stress.
24. Stress will kill you. (I’ve told you before, Lisa Anne).
25. I’m going by Lisa Anne now mama, occasionally “LT”.
26. I sold three paintings last week and I gave one expensive one away.
27. One painting found a new home, it was inspired by your high school photo and I called it “Heaven Meets Earth”.
28. Today, I will believe there are better days ahead, I’ll not long as much to have you here to have your hand touch mine, to see your face when you see ours.
29. Today, I’ve decided I’ll ask again and if you’re listening, maybe you can soften the way. For Mother’s Day, I want a dog.
Yes, how fitting, how perfect, how precious it will be. A puppy or a rescue, a new home with me to represent and honor you. Yes, I’ve decided, I’ll ask again.
Don’t you think it’s time, Greg? Time for us to get a dog? If not now he might say soon and I’ll let it go, trust it’s just not a good time.
30. Better now, I’m better. Grief is a mystery and an unexplainable thing. Words from others who don’t truly know are better left unsaid.
There’s really no right response other than remembering.
When Mother’s Day is without a mom, a mother, an outspoken and gone too soon mama!
The greatest gift is to allow all of the remembering you can stand!
P.S. I joined the Artist Guild and there’s an exhibit tonight I don’t think I’ll be attending. One, possibly two of my pieces will be displayed. Some artists will have ribbons on their works. I’m not going because I still don’t care for spotlights or attention.
Remember the time you and daddy drove four hours because a piece I created was chosen for a blue ribbon?
I remember it well and the years that followed dulled my shine and the gift of your being there.
So, if I didn’t say so then, thank you for telling me back then that it was possible,
I could become an artist according to you!
I finally believe you.
Happy Mother’s Day. I feel you near, do not fully understand it, I do believe you have become an angel.