Author: ferylfiles

Momma

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Today is my mom’s birthday. She’s been gone for sixteen and a half years and that hardly seems possible. My relationship with her was complicated–the details of which are more suited for a coffee shop chat than a blog. After the age of eight, almost nine, I didn’t live with my mom full time. There’s a lot of heartache in the layers of story there and I’m not interested in pouring them out. What I do want to share is how she built the foundation of my worldview, character, and aspirations of who I’d like to become.

MariAnne had a rough childhood largely due to an abusive mother, one she only spoke about in sing-song euphemisms to protect her children from the full impact of the truth. What we needed to know was that she chose differently and that we experienced childhood differently, too. I’ve learned in more recent years about childhood ACES (Adverse Childhood Experiences) and their impact on brain development, mental health, physical health and the vital importance of having adults who support and believe in you, even if it’s just one. My mom had more ACES than I will ever know. She also had grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who adored her, supported her, believed in her.

My mom graduated from boarding school, got a degree in nursing, raised four children, traveled as a missionary and teacher to Cuba, South Korea, and some of the Pacific Islands. She climbed mountains, she waterskiied, she could style a home on no money and make it look effortlessly elegant. Long after my parents divorced, my dad told me “your mom could make any place feel like a warm, beautiful home, no matter what our budget.” When her kids were far away, she made sure to not stop loving and took many kids under her wing, teaching them how to drive, giving them a chance to earn a little money doing chores, reminding them of their importance and worth, just like she’d done for her own kids.

When I was little and would come home from school complaining of a mean girl, my mom was insistent that I consider the source of the meanness. She worked very deliberately to help me hone a sense of empathy. Maybe this little girl doesn’t have a happy home. Maybe this little girl is acting out. Maybe this little girl needs your friendship. “Oh Mom!” I’d be so mad that she wouldn’t take my side. I’m so glad she didn’t. I’m so glad she wanted me to think of others. My mom had a spirit of forgiveness that I would like to emulate more. I find it so interesting that some folks can have the worst possible things happen to them and they deliberately choose the path of grace, love, forgiveness, and hope, and others become bitter, angry, score-keeping, and vengeful. She once told me I was just like her and I bristled as a young woman might do when their mother lays that sort of mantle on her shoulders. Now at nearly 47, I think to myself, “Oh, God, I hope so.”

Happy birthday, momma. Thanks for showing us a better way to be.

[My siblings and I have set up a memorial nursing scholarship in our mom’s name at Walla Walla University, her alma mater. The first Sunday in May, I host a porch pop-up at my home where we sell our art, creative achievements, my jewelry, and I invite other vendors to sell their goods in anticipation of Mother’s Day the following week. Our proceeds go to help fund that scholarship. I encourage you to put that day on your calendar as it’s a lot of fun and there’ll be refreshments as well. If you’d like to donate directly to the scholarship you can go here: https://payment.wallawalla.edu/donate#/ in the first dropdown box, choose “Student Aid and Scholarships.” In the second dropdown box, choose “Other.” Then where it says to “Describe Your Donation” write MariAnne Jensen Moore Memorial Nursing Scholarship. Thank you very much to all those who have contributed before as the scholarship has been providing support to Walla Walla University nursing students for a number of years now.]

Ninth

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Nine years ago I got to marry the best man I’ve ever known. It was a surprise, small wedding at the back of a restaurant in Portland, Oregon. We had a small group of attendees, which suited my introversion well. We made our own vows. Our officiant told the story of Naomi and Ruth, reminding us that love is a decision and a commitment and we lived it.

I miss my husband–the man who would pull me close and say in a low voice “mine.”

Today is a good day because we had that day and so many more afterward. Today is a hard day because he’s not here with me the way I want him to be.

If you see me today and my nose is runny, my eyes a little puffy, my cheeks blotchy, just know that all off the feelings are close to the surface.

Spring

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March is such a hopeful month, full of light and flowers, possibilities, too. The hyacinth in the planting strip have bloomed. The tulips won’t be far behind. The vernal equinox is the 19th. Our wedding anniversary is the 20th. My Mom’s birthday is the 22nd. Hope and melancholy mix like the smell of decaying leaves and fresh flowers. They live side by side. They always have. I just notice more now.

I am excited to clear the beds in the backyard, make a plan for new flowers and vegetables. The idea is to remove the decaying back deck and replace it with a red brick patio from a mountain of bricks that have been beside this house for years. (Red brick and a green and white house–I’m determined to carry a little Athens, Ohio, and Ohio University with me wherever I go.)

The melancholy hits a little harder when the sweetness of life is so good. My heart aches for my husband to be with me so we can cook, and talk, and play. I miss my mama and wish she could hug me, demonstrate what grace and forgiveness in action look like all over again, and remind me once more that I’m brave. I’m surrounded by family, friends, coworkers, neighbors who make this life rich. Full heart. Broken heart. Every day.

I find that on the cusp of a season change, I have one or two really wakeful nights. Maybe my body is adapting to the lighter days, maybe it’s more than that. Lack of sleep brings more things to the surface, too. I’m crying a little more easily of late. That’s the nature of grief–always present, manifesting itself as it will.

Restful

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I was talking to my co-worker the other day, post time change, about how I go to bed early now. Before I met Bryan and while we were dating and I lived on my own, I would regularly stay up past 11pm, maybe get six hours of sleep or so, and do that on repeat. I drank a lot of coffee; I was pretty wired, anxious, and exhausted. After we got married and I moved in, my rhythm of life began to match Bryan’s. He needed a solid eight hours, really loved nine, and on occasion would stretch to ten hours or occasionally short himself to six or seven. But mostly, it was bed between 9 and 10pm and up between 6 and 7am.

Bryan loved breakfast and busty brunettes (like Ron Swanson)–so we would be up early to have a full eggs, potatoes, fruit breakfast practically every morning and he would spoil me with my eggs cooked to order. Restful routine. Remarkably, I still do my best to get to bed early. I still get up to have breakfast (more along the lines of fruit, yogurt, granola, and nuts) early.

Why this description about restfulness and routine? I guess it’s these little elements of my daily life that continue to delight and surprise me. Bryan’s faithful habits and ways of walking in the world continue to affect me, help me, wrap me up in his goodness. I miss him so much and I feel all the ways he’s still here. How lucky am I to have had him as my person?

Imagining

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Have you ever made a vision board? Poster board, cut out pictures and text, embellishments, glue sticks–the whole bit? Recently I’ve done one; I liked doing it. It gave me the chance to reflect on moving forward through this year. Imagining possibilities, planning finished projects, and creating new ways of being have been really encouraging, and it’s not fraught with the guilt-laden shoulding of New Year’s resolutions.

We’re already two months through 2024 and in some ways it seems to be flying and other times (the -4 degree stint for example) seem to be interminable. What even is time? Imagining and planning are essential components to moving forward. The doing is even more important. I want to be clear, though, that all the hubbub around planning and doing isn’t some camouflage to grief.

Periodically I have text exchanges with one of my dear cousins who is wise, clever, creative, fun, and she is also no stranger to immense grief. She reminded me that grief doesn’t end. Grief changes. And stagnation is the worst part of it. That’s why movement forward is so important. In that movement, we can learn and grow and evolve. Our grief doesn’t end, but it changes as we grow and change. I appreciate her wisdom and see it reflected in my experiences this last year and I can be certain these truths will remain as I proceed through the rest of this year.

Imagining futures that do not yet exist is what propels humanity and on a small scale it is what will propel me, too. What are you imagining for the rest of this year? What ideas and plans are you hatching? How will you keep moving forward?

[Virtual tip jar: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1]