One hour more

If you could spend one more hour with any person who has since passed away, who would you choose? There may be many names of famous people that come to mind. But I? I would choose mother. She was taken too soon, in my perspective. Resting in the fact that God doesn’t make mistakes is what gets me through the day.

Hi mom. It’s good to see you again. We don’t have a lot of time, so I want to get right down to it. I love you, and I miss you so much that my entire being physically aches. I still wake up thinking that you’re sleeping just a room away. Or really, two floors away.

I am sleeping in the basement, but a nightmare tears away my slumber. Even in my close-to-adult state, I wake up and cry out for you to come.

Do you remember that? You were always the only one who could comfort me in just the right way. Sometimes, we fought. It actually happened a lot.

I remember running from you into my room, locking my door behind me, refusing to let you in when you instructed me to “Open this door!” Was I scared? No, I was angry. I was angry that you were punishing me. Dad is the one who wields the rod, you were the gentle, kind, caring one. No one could accuse you of being soft.

But I always knew you loved me and my siblings.

Daniel tripped down the stairs carrying his glass terrarium and it shattered. You screamed, scared that the glass had sliced a thin red line down the middle of his chest. When we saw that he had only been jabbed by the plastic corner, a flood of relief ensued. There was blood, but it was manageable. Daniel refused to get stitches? You made it work. A scar is left on his chest, which he now affectionately calls his third nipple.

Mom, there’s a lot of memories. Good ones, bad ones, ones that make me scratch my head. But from birth to age nineteen, you were in all of them. I never realized how much space you took up in my heart. I never realized that to lose you meant losing the mortar between all the bricks of my life. I didn’t know how hard Christmas would be without you, because after all, you love Christmas.

In Australia, you climbed into my loft bed to sit with me for a few minutes. And I ended up reading you the entire play, “The Importance of Being Earnest.” The movie follows it almost word for word. Do you remember that?

You were such a perfectionist when it came to, well most things. And I never thought I was. But you know what? It seems that I am turning into my mother. And I have never been happier to say those words, to write those words, to think those words.

Once, we talked about mothers. You said that you didn’t want to become your mother when you got older. I told you that I didn’t want to become you when I was older. We laughed and moved on. It was a normal conversation. Can you think of many women—especially teenagers—who want to be just like their mothers when they grow older?

But now I do. And I want to tell you why. You know how they say, “hindsight is 20-20?” You told me that a few times. I can look at the life you lived, and the way you loved, and I can say that I want to be like that. I can look at the humility that you displayed and the care you extended, and I can say that I want to be like that. I can look at the sins you showed and the insecurities that you displayed, and I can say I want to learn from that.

You made mistakes. We all make mistakes. I am sorry for how wrongly I treated you for the nineteen years that I had you. I am sorry for not seeing how integral you were to all of life until you died. I am sorry that I didn’t help you in the kitchen more, soaking up the time we had together. I know that you are no longer angry or hurt because heaven removes those illnesses. But I want you to know that you were my best friend, my favorite chef, my most adventurous playmate, my sincerest counselor, my greatest encourager, my mom. I don’t care if all this praise embarrasses you. I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

Oh, and I am doing well. Thinking about the future, trying not to worry about finding a job after I graduate. I don’t have a boyfriend, and there isn’t anyone on the horizons. I love Jesus more than I ever have before, and I have been ministering to people whenever I can. I know that those good things can only come from Christ, but I like to say and hope that I got some of that from you.

The hour is almost up.

A kiss on the cheek, much warmer and motherly than the one I received the day before you died. It must be great to have a glorified body. Momma, I’ll see you soon, though not before the Lord wills. I miss you every day.  I love you. I will never forget you.

Who would you pick if you could grab someone from your past or from history? Who would you sit with and talk to for an hour? What if you picked someone who isn’t from the past, who isn’t dead, who lived with you, or is just a phone call away? Maybe she has a bad temper. Maybe she hurt you one too many times. But she is still your mom. Tell her how much she means to you before the day when you can only wish she was still here.

Advertisements

Published by: Tilly Grace

An aspiring writer, hoping to use the gifts God has given and the experiences He has allowed to encourage others in their walk with Him. Shared hope, shared life, shared dreams, shared joy, shared tears, shared grief, shared glory.

Categories Godly adviceLeave a comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s