What You Look At Is What You See

My mom didn’t have the best singing voice—at least I never thought so. She once told me that she only got into the high school glee club because the director felt sorry for her. She sang on pitch and could carry a tune well enough, but her voice had harshness to it, especially when she sang out of range. I’m ashamed to say that as a teenager I was embarrassed to sit next to her in church because she sang so loudly and her voice did not blend well with the others. I was certain people were staring at us.

No hymn or praise song that left my mom’s lips was ever lacking in heart, though. Maybe that’s what was embarrassing to the teenage me—instead of just accepting the fact that she wasn’t gifted with a beautiful voice and singing her praises quietly, she sang her praises like she meant them…because she did.

I still have a lot to learn from my mother.

So often I use my perceived lack of gifts to sit life out. The new recipes I try never seem to turn out, so we’ll just have spaghetti again. I’m lousy at socializing with people I don’t know well, so let’s just skip the party. My pictures never turn out right, so I’m going to leave the camera at home. I don’t know as much about the new project at work as so-and-so does, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut at meetings.

A wise friend once said, “What you look at is what you see.” My mom actually had this written in her Bible. (She had the same wise friend.) If I look at what’s lacking, I’ll see what’s lacking and it will, nine times out of ten, stop me from moving forward. If I look at what’s there in abundance…well, let me illustrate:

I’m blessed to have a husband and stepkids who graciously eat everything I cook and actually look forward to my “experiments.”

Wow, how nice to get invited to a party! What a great chance for me to be brave and step outside my comfort zone and make new friends.

The great thing about a digital camera is that you can take hundreds of shots until you get the right one!

It’s such a simple concept but so powerful too: It makes all the difference where we focus our attention. Fear can’t win when I’m looking at courage. Despair can’t win when I’m looking at hope. Self-pity can’t win when I’m looking at thanksgiving.


My mom at the front of the VBS parade, singing praises.

When my mom looked at herself sitting in the pew at church with a hymnal in her hand or walking through the neighborhood at the head of the VBS parade or driving in the car listening to her favorite Christian music CD, she saw a desire to praise the One she loved more than anyone else in the world, not a lack of singing talent (or a silly, embarrassed teenage daughter). And that made all the difference to her.

What I look at is a choice, and I pray I will choose wisely; I want to see myself not as lacking in gifts but as swimming in opportunities to be all God wants me to be. And that is an exciting view!      

Waiting for Morning

On a recent whim, I bought the entire Chronicles of Narnia collection in one volume from a thrift store. I then proceeded to read it. Actually, I stayed up way too late for too many nights and devoured it. I’d seen the three Narnia movies, but I hadn’t had my nose in any of the novels since my third-grade teacher read a few of them aloud in class, so many of them were completely new to me.

As I finished one novel and started the next, I felt a little sad each time because at the end of each novel, with the exception of The Horse and His Boy, the children from our world who are brought to Narnia have to leave. After participating in a great adventure, making new friends, growing in wisdom and understanding about themselves and the world around them, and walking side by side with Aslan the lion, the children have to say good-bye to Narnia and take up their ordinary lives again. The children actually handle this reality pretty well; I, on the other hand, felt a heaviness on me each time it happened and was tempted to chuck the whole book in the trash.

It’s like the feeling I get when I have to leave what my mother used to call a “mountaintop experience”—an empty sort of ache that comes from the realization that once a moment has passed you can never get it back again. I remember back in college when I volunteered as a camp counselor for a week each summer, after I went back home I’d write mournful poetry in my journal and lament the fact that all I had left of my week were memories and a few photos. Leaving China after living and working there for two years caused a similar ache that lasted for months and still pops up occasionally because I knew I would likely never see again this side of heaven many of the people I’d come to love. I feel an ache even now when we have to come back to the city after spending time up in northern Wisconsin near Lake Superior, a place where I feel more at peace than anywhere else on this earth. Just a few weekends ago I got choked up when I had to leave my grandma’s house after a visit. We had so much fun together as she taught me to sew. She’s 93 years old; I don’t know how many visits we have left. The older I get the more I realize the value of special moments and want to hang on to them as long as I can.

When I got to the last book in the Naria series, The Last Battle, I approached the end with caution, my heart beating faster with every page as I silently longed for the children to get to stay in Narnia. Please, Mr. Lewis, let it end well! Mr. Lewis did not disappoint; in fact, he caught me by complete surprise. If you haven’t read the book, be warned that I’m going to give some of it away.

It was a rollercoaster, this last book. Through the scheming of Shift, the evil ape, and the Calormenes, Narnia is destroyed, and nearly all the children who had been to Narnia from its beginning, though some of them were now quite old, find themselves together, walking with Aslan deeper and deeper into a world that is strangely familiar and yet different—better—than the Narnia they had known. As they walk, they grow lighter in spirit and find that no matter how far they run, they never get tired, nor are they able to feel afraid. Along the way old friends from their adventures greet them, and they experience more joy in these reunions that they ever knew was possible.

And then they ask the question that had been on their minds (and mine!) the whole time: Would they get to stay this time. Aslan explains that they are in the new Narnia, the real Narnia, Narnia as it should have always been, and that this time, because they had all been killed in a train crash, they never again have to leave. “The dream is ended,” he says. “This is the morning.”

At this point in the book, I was sobbing into my pillow from both relief and a strange sort of euphoria. Something about C. S. Lewis’s depiction of eternity resonated with me so deeply that my whole perspective changed.

I’ve known since childhood God’s promise of heaven, but to my younger self, the thought of standing around in a white robe singing praise all day didn’t sound too exciting. As I grew older, the idea of seeing my grandparents or other loved ones again in heaven became more and more appealing, but I wanted to get a bit more out of life on this earth before going down that particular road. Now, though, things are different. Now I’ve known loss that has wounded me and left scars. Now I know I’ll never be able to think away the hollow spot inside me that grows a bit bigger every time I had to say good-bye. Now I feel so deeply the discouragement of a broken world. 

By the grace of God, I’m never without hope; I’m just waiting for the morning.

I know it might sound morbid to say I can’t wait to get to heaven, because unless Jesus returns first, death is a certainty. But going to heaven is not about dying; it’s about living! It’s about using every breath and gift I’ve been given right now to live deliberately—to hug a stranger who’s hurting, speak the truth boldly and with love, give away things I want to hold onto, and pray constantly. It’s about remembering that God didn’t put me on this earth to settle in comfortably and make a good life for myself until he calls me home; he put me here to serve and glorify him, no matter the difficulty or the cost.

As God’s own daughter, I know the best is yet to come. This wonderful knowledge gives me the courage to face my fears and follow God’s lead, even though doing so might push me beyond my comfort zone. It also gives me a new perspective on the happy times in life. I don’t need to hang onto people I love with a white-knuckled grip anymore because I’m afraid I’ll lose them. Of course I’ll lose them—that’s part of life in the shadowlands: everyone dies. So I take advantage of the time we have together, apologize and forgive, and choose to be patient, loving, and unselfish (and pray for a lot of help in those areas!). When God blesses me with mountaintop moments, I accept them with thanksgiving, enjoy them, and then let them go. I realize now that no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep them forever, and that’s okay!

Even though the children loved their time in Narnia, it was only when they experienced life in the new Narnia, Narnia as it should have been, that they knew what it was like to really live. When this temporary life is over and my life in heaven begins, I’ll know joy, peace, hope, and love in ways I’ve only caught glimpses of here on earth. Not to mention, I'll get to attend the best reunion ever! Even my happiest moments in this life can’t compare to the joy of heaven. Can you imagine?

Narnia may be a fantasy, but God’s heaven is not. Morning is coming. Praise God!

The Story That Was Hard to Tell

I need to tell the story that has in many ways defined the past year of my life. My story. It nags at me. The minute my mind slows down, it runs through my head like annoying song lyrics. I’ve avoided telling it because thinking about it too much hurts like a fist in my stomach. But this is a story I need to write if I want to get to the next chapter of my life, and today the time is right. I’m sitting on a wooden swing next to Lake Superior with no distractions or responsibilities. The sound of the water is soothing, and the sun is warm but not hot. I’m ready for a new tune.

It was on April 22, 2011, Good Friday, that I had my last conversation with my mom. She was in the hospital after having emergency surgery on an infection in her foot a week before. It had been a long road for her with more than a month of foot pain and no diagnosis. The doctors said she’d recover, even though whether she’d be able to keep her foot was up in the air, and, of course, she’d needed surgery to correct the malfunctioning heart valve.

That Good Friday she wasn’t herself, and I didn’t like it. There was an emotional disconnect that I can’t explain—like she didn’t know what it meant that I was her daughter, that all the confidences and laughter we’d shared and arguments we’d had were hidden away in a part of her mind she couldn’t access any more. We were acquaintances, she and I. My little nephew asked me to take her a stuffed bunny for him, and she talked to it like a child would. When I told her it was from Kaleb, she didn’t seem to care.

Then she told me she had conspired with my grandma to make sure Kev and I had Easter baskets, and she and my grandma had compiled a grocery list so there would be food in the house for our weekend visit, including pulp free orange juice—the only kind I drink. They’d talked about what we would have for Easter dinner. What a curious thing the human brain is.

I helped her eat her supper; she couldn’t really remember how to hold her spoon. I wanted it to be over, this Good Friday visit. I wanted to go away and come back the next day, when she’d be better. She could only get better. She was dozing off when we left; I don’t think I said “I love you.” I was too selfish. It was all about how I felt, not about how she felt, and this now makes me ashamed. I was naïve to think there would be a tomorrow, but I’m not that naïve anymore. We’re not guaranteed unlimited amounts of time. Love covers over a multitude of wrongs.

After church that night, my dad, grandma, Kev, and I went to the grocery store to get the things on the list my mom and grandma had made. When we saw the hot cross buns, we picked some up to take to my mom the next day, as she looked forward to them every year.  Surely the doctor wouldn’t mind if she had one. The uneasy feeling in my stomach kept me up that night.

The next morning, Kev and I went to the hospital. My dad had talked to my mom on the phone, and she was having a bath. She hadn’t slept well but the bath was helping her feel better.  We got off the elevator and saw my aunt sitting in the lobby. She’d walked it on my mom gasping for breath, unable to find her call button. When the nurses asked my mom her name, she couldn’t say. They’d taken her to the ICU and sedated her so they could insert a breathing tube. They used words like “blood clot,” but nobody really knew. It would be days before “mini strokes” and “kidney failure” became a diagnosis. The nurse who’d cared for her that morning was shocked. “Only minutes before, she was telling me all about her granddaughter,” the nurse said. It doesn’t surprise me that my mom’s last conversation on this earth would involve her grandchildren. I think part of the reason she hung on so long was because of them, but who can really say.

Phone calls were made. My brother got in his car and drove, and my sister and nephew booked a flight for the next day. They ended up staying for a month, going home for my nephew’s kindergarten graduation, and then coming back again for another month. In the weeks ahead, I drove back and forth from Minnesota to Illinois on the weekends, but my sister was there every day through the whole thing. She has her own story to tell.

Easter Sunday I cried through “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” That afternoon at the hospital we urged my mom to wake up. We watched every movement, looking for signs of recognition, pleading with her to give us some clue that she was in there.  The nurses told us to give it time, but they knew she should have been come out of sedation by then. For the first time in my recent memory, I saw my dad cry. We prayed she would recover—hundreds of people prayed with us. “Family of believers” took on new meaning for us. A lot of people loved my mom.

But she never really woke up. She would open her eyes but couldn’t focus on anything. The breathing tube scared her. The infectious disease doctor monitored the blood cultures; the cardiologist told us she was too weak for surgery remove the infectious growth from her heart valve; the nephrologist said her kidneys were taking a beating; the neurologist said the infection broke off from her heart valve and caused mini strokes all over her brain. When they decided to take out the breathing tube, no one knew if she could breathe on her own. We said good-bye and committed her to Jesus, but God gave us more time. She will die of kidney failure on a few days, the doctors told us.

We started planning a funeral; my dad didn’t want to wait until the last minute. He knew just who he would call—the funeral director he’d worked with many times as a pastor, a kind and compassionate man who’d lost his own 18-year-old son and believed with his whole heart in the resurrection. My sister and I picked out funeral clothes for my mom. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said. “Try not to think about it,” my sister replied. We decided on the dress she would have worn for Easter.

Hanging on to the hope that God is stronger than brain injuries and kidney failure, we continued to pray for a miracle. “If you’re going to take her, Lord,” I begged, “please just let her wake up so I can talk to her one last time.” She would have no moment of clarity on her death bed aside from mouthing three or four words of her favorite song as my dad sang to her, “Surely it is God who saves me. I will trust in him and not be afraid.”

On June 10, after being discharged from the hospital and spending a few weeks in a nursing home, my mom died. By then we were ready. By then her death was a blessing. But I still had things to say to her. I suppose I always will. I thought by now, almost a year after her death, I wouldn’t miss her so much. I’m finding it doesn’t work that way, though. I’ll always miss her—we all will.

Her funeral was beautiful. It really was. Our family grew by hundreds that day. No one is shy about hugging at funerals. We felt loved.

Maybe the hardest part of my story was the fact that I lost the mom I knew before she even died. I think the mini strokes started before she’d even been admitted to the hospital. The doctors blamed her confusion and altered personality on the antibiotics and stress her body was under, but they didn’t know her. Even in that, though, God blessed me with a special moment. There was one day when I called her in the morning, not long after her foot surgery. She was tired. I said, “Hi mom; it’s Keri.” She said, “My Keri.” For the rest of my life I will hang on to the memory of the sound of her voice when she said that. At least at that moment, my mom knew me.

I can’t talk to my mom anymore, but I love hearing my aunt and grandma tell stories about my mom’s childhood. There’s a new appreciation for one another in my family. I love the way my relationship with my dad is deepening. It used to be when I called, it was usually to talk to my mom. Now I call to talk to my dad, and it’s nice. He also has a story to tell, and I hope one day he’ll write it down. I love that my siblings and I have common memories and that there’s no danger of my mom being forgotten. My nephew Kaleb remembers his grandma, as do my stepchildren. But my niece was only three and my nephew only a baby when she died. It will be fun to share stories with them about their grandma as they get older. I love spending time with my mom’s friends when they just call to chat or invite me for tea. Maintaining some sort of connection to my mom is important to me, and God’s blessed me with ways to do that.

Grief used to be a burden. It frustrated me that I was not in control of my emotions—that I would at unexpected times cave under the weight of how much I missed my mom. I realize now that grieving is more than just a process to get through and leave behind; the loss I’ve experienced has shaped who I am in beautiful ways. Grief is necessary, but it doesn’t have to be a constant companion. If I’m sad, I need to let the sadness in for a short visit but not invite it to move in. If I feel the tears coming, I need to cry and then blow my nose and embrace the gift that each day is. It’s time to take off the mourning clothes and focus on using my gifts, cherishing my family and friends, loving others like Jesus does, and following where my Savior leads.

That’s my story. It’s not over, though. The next chapter is only just beginning.

Beauty in Strange Places

It’s easy enough for me to find beauty in nature. The way the snow sticks to the bare tree branches and then when the sun shines drips off in glittering gems. The way I can hear the power of a waterfall before I can see it. The way the scent of lilacs reminds me of spring. Poets seeking inspiration in nature don’t need to look too far. It’s easy enough to find beauty in man-made things too. Stately century-old mansions that reflect the ingenuity of a bygone generation. Paintings that capture the reflection of the human spirit. Songs that cut to the very soul and leave listeners groping for a tissue.

I think I’m the type of person who tries to recognize and appreciate beauty and even create some of my own from time to time, but I wasn’t prepared for the beauty I discovered one morning while riding the bus to work in downtown Minneapolis. There are a several lovely old buildings in downtown Minneapolis, but they’re overshadowed by concrete and steel and glass. Some skyscrapers could be classified as interesting or even impressive from a structural standpoint, but I’d certainly never call them beautiful…on their own. But when the sun rose that morning, the whole city changed. Hundreds of windows reflected pink and purple, and when the sun hit the city just right, steel turned to silver. The beams of light encompassed the city in an almost supernatural glow, and from a distance, Minneapolis, for a few minutes, became the dazzling Atlantis. But by the time I arrived downtown, the magic was gone. The sun was higher in the sky, and the city was drab and cold once more.

I love being surprised by beauty, especially when it transforms the bleakest of circumstances into something to wonder at.

I often think experiencing loss and its repeated aftershocks that sometimes bombard a person like rapid gunfire and other times just sort of linger in the background is the worst part of being human. Having to feel so much all the time is exhausting. Grief might diminish with time, but there’s still an empty place at the table, and nothing can change that.

But maybe one of the best parts of being human is being able to experience beauty in all shapes and forms, even in strange places—even as a result of loss. Empathy for the pain of others, renewed joy in relationships, an appreciation for what hasn’t been lost—these are beautiful things that perhaps can’t be known in their fullest capacity by someone who does not know loss.

It seems like a contradiction to me, the intermingling of loss and beauty, like flowers blooming on a battlefield or a rainbow arching over the ruins left behind by a tornado. It makes me think of Job, reeling from the loss of everything he held dear and tormented by open sores all over his body perhaps declaring boldly or, more likely, croaking out through parched lips, the beautiful words, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and He shall one day stand upon the earth.”  

Hanau, Germany

We visited a town in Germany that had at its center the remains of a bombed-out church. It would have been practical for the people in the town to just tear the whole church down, but someone saw the beauty in its mangled skeleton and rebuilt part of it while leaving another part as is, a reminder of the past. The people of that town did not seek to eliminate all traces of the terrible loss they experienced during the Second World War. What good would that have done? They weren’t ashamed of their wounds and scars encompassed in the shell of an old church, a profoundly beautiful reminder of their resilience and courage.

Maybe the people of that town knew what I’ve only recently come to realize: It would be a shame to waste loss—to experience it without seeing all the unexpected beauty brought about as a result. And it’s not the fleeting beauty of a sunrise over a city either. Rather, it’s a changed attitude…a thankful heart…an open hand…a quiet peace…a humble surrender…a bold testimony.

When it’s touched by the finger of the Creator, even the most heartbreaking loss can produce something beautiful. All we have to do is open our eyes and look.

An Advent of Thanksgiving

Not long ago, Kev and I had the opportunity to spend a Sunday afternoon at the home of Kev’s aunt and uncle when several of their grown children and their families were gathered together for a post-Thanksgiving meal. There I observed a scene that was beautiful and yet cut through me quite unexpectedly. Like slipping and falling on a patch of ice disguised as pavement, it caught me off guard and knocked the wind out of me: A mother and her lovely daughters sitting around the table sharing family stories and memories with one another, finishing each other’s sentences. They might not have been aware of it—I certainly wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t been so keenly aware of its absence in my own life—but they were sharing much more than conversation and laughter; they were sharing a connection that can only exist between a mother and her daughters.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this mother-daughter connection. It’s hard to describe my relationship with my mom because words like “friend” or “confidante” don’t do it justice. All my life, my mom was the first one I thought to call whenever something exciting or sad or confusing happened. She knew all my secrets and all my hopes, and she knew all my foibles and flaws—and loved me anyway. I miss sharing things with her—chatting for more than an hour on the phone until she’d inevitably say, “I have to let you go, Keri. I have to go to the bathroom!”—and sometimes I feel very hollow inside. But these days, I mostly feel thankful.

This feeling of thankfulness is surprising to me because throughout much of the grieving process, thankfulness has been an afterthought instead of a real, honest emotion. Of course I’m thankful my mom is in heaven and will never know pain or loss again. And I’m thankful for the assurance I’ll see her again. But thankfulness for these things hasn’t necessarily changed the fact that what I really want is another 30 years with my mom.

The thankfulness I’ve felt lately, though, is different. It’s been quietly and steadily replacing the vague, unsettled feeling that’s lingered all these months with a soothing sort of peace. Grief for what I’ve lost now mingles with thankfulness for what I had. For 36 years I had a mother who loved me, supported me, corrected me, and modeled for me what it means to be a woman of God. That is a huge blessing! Mourning that fact that my mom will not live to be over 90 like her own mother seems to cheapen the 66 years God gave my mom on this earth, 36 of which I got to spend with her. Why have I not realized this before?

Oh how the grace of God is a salve for the pieces of me that were broken and are now healing! I love how he reveals things in his own time, patiently and repeatedly for those of us who are slow to catch on. Jesus’ promise that those who mourn will be comforted rings true in so many ways that continue to leave me amazed and humbled.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop longing for the concreteness of the relationship I had with my mom. I haven’t heard her voice since Good Friday, and I miss it every single day. But the relationship I had with my mom did not die when my mom did; it will always be a part of who I am and will continue to influence and shape my relationships with other people. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.

Baby Steps

I regret I’ve gotten sidetracked from my blog. But I have a good excuse: I’m working on a young adult novel. I’ll write more about that at a later time, though. I just wanted to write a quick reflection while I have the time.
A month ago, I felt like I was in a different skin, and I didn’t quite know how it fit. Many of the things I used to enjoy doing, like going shopping or baking, no longer held any appeal for me because they reminded me of time I’d spent with my mom doing the same thing. Shopping just seemed like a chore, and baking took too much effort. I couldn't even drive through the neighborhood where I spent more of my childhood without falling to pieces in the car. But with the change of seasons has come a time of healing and rejuvenation. I can’t explain it except as God’s incredible grace and mercy.

Since my mom’s death, I’ve been in a hamster wheel chasing after something to just help me feel good again. I’m not talking about drugs or anything like that—I’m talking about lifestyle changes. I’ve changed my diet to include much less refined sugar and white flour. I’ve started going to an upper cervical chiropractor to try to get rid of the heavy fatigue that’s hung over me most of the summer and fall. I’ve gotten a new job with a much shorter commute and more chances for challenge and growth. I’ve started to invest once again in my relationships with the people who’ve held me up in prayer all these months.

But something else triggered a change only this past weekend. I took my stepdaughter shopping for a Confirmation dress. It was a very short shopping trip, as we’d done our research online before hitting the store, but it was enough to launch me forward. The next day, my sister commented that my nephew needed new pants because he’d worn holes in all his jeans. “If Mom were alive, he’d never need pants,” my sister said. “I’ll get him pants!” I volunteered. Shopping is such a silly, unimportant thing, and it makes absolutely no difference in the grand scheme of things whether I like to go shopping or not. But I feel like I’ve regained a piece of me that was lost, and that is good.

The grieving process still continues, though. I can’t look at recent pictures of my mom without breaking down, and I can’t yet read her notes and emails. It’s too exhausting to deal with all of that right now. But I can talk about her. I love to talk about her. I love to tell stories from my childhood and tell my stepkids things she used to tell me. That’s something, right?

There was so much more I wanted to say, but I need to get to bed, and I can’t remember what I was going to say anyway. All I know is that God’s promise to be near to the broken-hearted is true. He’s so good.   

A Matter of Time

Grief is a curious thing. These days I feel like I’m part of a science experiment, waiting to see each day the form grief will take. Early on I thought the listlessness I woke up with week after week was the result of a vitamin D deficiency or too much sugar in my diet or the blasted heat and humidity…until I talked to my sister and discovered she felt the same way. I’m not sure why missing my mom would drain me of energy to the point that I found nothing even remotely interesting or appealing, or why the mere thought of going about a normal day as if nothing was wrong made me want to hide under the covers like a child having a nightmare. Thankfully, as the summer has faded so has my lethargy.

I was actually feeling really good up until a few days ago. I thought maybe I’d reached a turning point. My mom’s birthday came and went, and I barely cried; instead I felt thankful and at peace. But now I think the permanence of my mom’s death is setting in, and I find myself wishing we’d just had more time.

I had a very vivid dream about my mom last night, my first one in a long time. In my dream, my sister and I were trying to make a pizza for us and my parents to eat. I was charged with finding the right pizza pan, but my parents’ kitchen (you might call it their “dream kitchen”) had about as many shelves as a department store, and I could not find the pan I wanted. My mom was across the street talking to a neighbor, and when I went over to her and asked her where to find the pan, she told me she was busy. So I continued looking, all the while getting angrier and angrier with my mom for not helping me.

When my mom finally came back home, she apologized for not coming home right away but said she wanted to talk with the neighbor. In my anger, I threw down the pan I was holding (apparently not the right pan) and stomped away. But my dad stopped me. He asked me if it was worth it to be angry with my mom over this. He told me I might regret it. At that moment, I (in my dream) knew my mom was actually dead. I said to my dad, “I think I understand what you’re saying.” And then I went back to my mom and gave her a hug so tight I could actually feel it, and she hugged me back.

Needless to say, I woke up rather confused.

I don’t place a lot of stock in dreams or pretend to know how to interpret them, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I wish I had taken better advantage of the opportunities I had to spend time with my mom and do stuff for her. I’m not angry with my mom; I’m frustrated with myself. I wish I had visited more often, called more often, offered to help more often. I wish I had asked her more about her childhood and college years and written down her memories. I wish I had loved her as selflessly as she loved me, but often the opposite was true.

Maybe this is the guilt stage of grief, if there even is one.

But God has always been and continues to be so good to me and my family. While I wander the land of “I wish,” I know it’s pointless to long for opportunities that I let slip away, and I’m continually reminded to be thankful for the opportunities I grabbed onto.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that my mom loved me as much as one human being could possibly love another, and I loved her as well as I knew how. There were no unresolved issues or conflicts. There were no hurtful words or actions left unforgiven. There was no bitterness or anger between us. What an incredible blessing!

Kev and I were talking recently about the week my whole family spent with my dad in Illinois after my mom’s funeral. We were reflecting on how even though I was a bit nervous about all of us being in close proximity for a week when we hadn’t been together for that long since the time all of us lived at home, it turned out to be a really good thing. At some point, Kev asked me what I’d like to be different if we were to repeat the experience in the future. I said, “For my mom to be there.” Kev said, “I don’t think she’d much like leaving heaven, even for that.”

He’s right. My mom’s experiencing joy we can’t even come close to this side of heaven. Though I often wish we could have her back just for a little while, the permanence of my mom’s new residence by Jesus’ side is something to rejoice about. And one day when we’re experiencing eternity together, we’ll have all the time in the world.

That thought makes me smile.