on grieving: motherhood

Every night, I sit in the rocking chair in our bedroom while I feed Elliot, and we talk about our day. We read a book. I sing her a song – usually Great is Thy Faithfulness – and then I tell her a story about my mom.

I tell her about how much Grandma Arlene loved to play piano. I tell her about baking Christmas cookies, dancing in the kitchen, being home-schooled. I share memories that I haven't shared with anyone else, and stories that I hope will settle into her heart and stay there forever. And I do mean forever. Because I also tell her about heaven, and how someday we will all sit together and retell these stories and laugh and cry and finally we will be “us”. Grandma, mommy and daughter.

I knew that this season would bring a new ache to my heart. I knew that motherhood would make me miss my mommy. But honestly, I didn't know. I didn't know how it would feel when I nursed my baby in the dark, sang my mother's favorite hymn to her, and prayed over her the same way my mom prayed over me. I knew my heart would ache...but I didn't realize that this would be an ache that filled every moment of motherhood.

This is an ache that goes with me everywhere, like it was when she first died. In that first year, everything reminded me of her or made me miss her – grocery shopping, putting on makeup, eating Onion rings, playing piano, shopping for school clothes...that's the problem with doing everything with someone. When they're gone, everything reminds you of them. Therefore, every single moment of the day hurts.

That's how it is now. Everything new that this little baby does, I think how I wish I could call and tell her. She burped! She cooed! She pooped! She's not pooping! She's smiling! I can still hear her laughter, her cheerful voice, the joy that she found in the little moments, and how amazing she was at making the ordinary feel like a celebration. That's who my mom was. She loved in a way that made sharing the little things so special. And so I miss her with every little celebration, every little happening.

I see her everywhere. I feel her absence, and I ache, and I pray. I pray for this baby girl that I hold in my arms. I pray that God will redeem what has been lost. I pray that I can live with joy and savor every year, every day, every minute with this daughter, with gratitude for a mother who modeled this type of living, and gave me more in 15 years of knowing me as her daughter than some daughters experience in a lifetime.