10 years. It has been ten years to the day since I last held my mom’s hand and breathed in her presence. She went to be with Jesus at only 55, and I was a mere 27 years old.
Up until that point, she truly was my world. We talked every day—normally multiple times a day. Her diagnosis and death, took me to a depth of grief that I had never seen or experienced. Deep sorrowful sounds I had never heard before exited my body as I mourned the loss of her. It was the most painful year of my life. It took everything in me to fight to move forward each day, but each day, it got a tiny bit easier.
To this day, I’ll be hit by moments of sorrow—something I long to share with her, grandkids I wish she could hold. I close my eyes sometimes and imagine the grandma she would be—she no doubt would win all sorts of “Grandma of the Year” awards.
I miss not having my sounding board. I miss not having my original “homebase.” I miss not having my encouragement generator. The loss of my mom grew beautiful attributes in me, though — one of the most prominent being gratitude.
I am so grateful for those who have come around me to love and care for me like my mom would. I have friends and family that pick me up from the airport, make me dinners, buy me gifts and love my kids as if they were their own. They know there is a void and they do so much extra to make me feel loved and cared for. I see their love and care for me with a renewed sense of appreciation. There is a gratitude for love that was birthed out of the death of my mom. I see the people who love me with a renewed sense of love and appreciation.