THIS SIDE OF HEAVEN

Three weeks ago this morning, you passed away.

I’ve had the most difficult time trying to sit down and write this. I think I’ve put it off because writing about you forces me to put into words what my heart and mind are still struggling to reconcile.

You aren’t just away, only to call me in a few days. You aren’t in the hospital. You aren’t on vacation or out traveling the world. No… you’re gone. And you aren’t ever coming back.

And Mom, I’m having such a hard time letting you go…

In attempts to dive head first into grief, I’m sitting down this morning to write about the wonderful mother you were to me. As the tears fall on my keyboard and my fingers begin to move, flowing from the depths of my heart, thoughts of losing you drip down into a puddle of inadequately typed words. I humbly realize that whatever spills forth will fall tremendously short of the tribute you deserve, but I ask the Lord to give me strength as I do my best to honor and remember you,

...the woman who gave me life.

Your life was a masterfully written story in which beauty and pain were so tightly woven together they yielded a tapestry perfectly described by the Lord bringing beauty from ashes. You were strong. The strongest person I’ve ever known. Life handed you trial after trial, yet you carried it all with beauty and grace, often masking your deepest heartaches with the most precious smile.

As a little girl, I remember seeing your pain… even feeling it at times. I didn’t understand much then. I just remember crawling up beside you on the couch, and oftentimes into your bed at night, rubbing my fingers through your hair. At 6 years old, I couldn’t possibly understand the gravity of your broken heart nor the hardship you were embarking on as a single mom, but I did understand that the tears you shed meant you were sad… and I wanted to take your tears away.

At the earliest age I can remember, you instilled in your “precious girls” the ability to find joy in any and every circumstance. Having grown and faced my own heart-wrenching struggles, I now look back on everything you went through and deeply admire your ability to find reasons to laugh even when life seemed void of hope. When we had nothing... wearing hand-me-downs from the ladies at church, believing our double wide was the most beautiful one in the trailer park, and when splitting one Totino’s pizza between the four of us meant it was Friday night... you found ways to make everything special.

A broken home was never your plan, but it became a catalyst for a life dependent upon Christ, and it was through those broken relationships — some yours, most mine, and at times ours...

the breaking made way for healing.

As I reflect over the 39 years of my life, one constant was your love for me. Grieving the loss of you has been the hardest thing I’ve walked through yet.

I find myself clinging to the Jesus who wept over the death of Lazarus more than the Jesus who raised him from the dead…

…and if there was anything you taught me well, it was that living in that space for a little while is okay. You taught me to make room for grief because we hold fast to the One who blesses and comforts those who mourn. I know that even as this day passes, and the weeks turn into months, I will need to make space for the many moments, seasons, and years to come when I will simply miss you… because after only three weeks, oh, I miss you so terribly much…

In the last weeks of your life, I found myself in a familiar place I had been before… only this time, I wasn’t the little girl curled up beside her mama, trying to comfort her.

No, I was the 39-year-old daughter who still needed her mom and was trying to soak up every last minute I had left.

It was those moments I will treasure forever because they caused me to pause and recall everything you taught me in life… that,

There is purpose in pain

Joy buried beneath sorrow

Laughter at the foot of humility

Freedom found in forgiveness

Strength in remaining steadfast

Truth in reconciliation

Redemption at the end of faithfulness

Restoration after pillow-soaked prayers

Peace flowing from the abundance of love

…and there is a crown waiting at the end of our race.

On July 20, 2021, just 32 days before you passed, you texted me this,

“He’s parting the waters and taking me through. I don’t even need to hold on; He’ll carry me the whole way. It’s all about Him, not me. He receives the glory!”

...He took you through Mom. He did indeed, carried you... all the way through.  

Now, He’s taking me through… he’s taking me through parted waters.

And as I charter through, leaning every bit on Him, I hope to live out the legacy you left behind, giving Him all the glory...

just as you did, till your last breath.

Thank you for showing me that a life without the depth of heartache nor the darkness of pain, would never truly be able to appreciate the vastness of God’s love.

It's in the deep, through the struggle, in the fight and through the sorrow, His light shines the brightest and we learn to set our eyes above it all... in the place of our eternal hope.

As I said at the end of every phone call, at the end of the day on every text, and at the end of a visit home... I love you more. Only this time,

I love you most….. this side of Heaven.

Forever your Peanut.