The one I needed to write

I was a senior in college the year my parents went to Africa. It was an experience of a lifetime for them, but it was also incredibly hard on my whole family to be apart for so long. After we took them to the airport for their flight first to Paris and then to who knows how many places before they arrived in Cameroon, my siblings and I went out for pizza, and we sat in the restaurant and talked about how strange our world suddenly seemed with Mom and Dad half the planet away. It wasn’t like they had gone to a developed country with reliable high-speed Internet and telephone lines you never thought twice about; they were in a place where they were lucky to receive e-mail once a week, and I can count on one hand the number of times we talked on the phone the year they were gone.

            All of us kids felt their absence differently. I felt lost. Here I was, almost finished with college, trying to figure out what to do next, not quite sure what to think about the young man who had his eye on me, wondering how best to help my grandparents as they struggled along with daily life, and I couldn’t ask my parents for advice. I especially missed my mom—our long conversations about boys, our shopping trips when I was home for the weekend. I’d get on the phone with my sister, who felt equally lost, and we’d just cry.

            One night after a particularly difficult day, I dreamed that my mom came into my room and gave me a hug. I could actually feel her arms around me, soothing me. She didn’t say anything; she just held me. When I woke up, for a moment I thought she was actually there, and even though I was disappointed that she wasn’t, I still felt comforted. To this day, almost fifteen years later, I remember that dream as vividly as my favorite memories. I don’t know if it was a little present from God or it was just my subconscious playing out my deepest longing. I do know that in the past months I’ve often wished for the same dream over again.  

            When my mom was sick this past spring, I dreamed about her a lot. She was in what the doctors called a semi-coma, which essentially meant she opened her eyes and responded to pain, but she didn’t respond to anything else, including our voices. In one dream, she was awake and sitting on her bed at home reading. I talked to her, and she talked to me, but I don’t remember what she said. In another part of the house, I found my sister. I told her Mom was awake and this had to be a dream because Mom was unconscious. My sister said (I remember it clearly), “If she’s awake, it’s a miracle. If you’re dreaming, it’s a hug from God.” I liked that.

            After my mom’s death, for a few weeks I dreamed she was alive, but I could never reach her. She was always too far away for me to talk to, and I just couldn’t get to her. I woke up frustrated and confused. Why wouldn’t she talk to me? Why wouldn’t she acknowledge me?

I don’t dream about her much anymore, at least not right now. She occasionally shows up as an extra in a dream, but she’s rarely the main character. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m not sure how I feel about anything actually. My mom’s death is a vague and unsettling concept I can’t quite hold in my hands or get straight on my head. Not a day goes by when the notion to call my mom goes fluttering through my head followed a split second later by the gut-wrenching realization that I can’t. Nor will I be able to ever again as long as I’m here and she’s there. But I try not to look too far into the future. One day at a time without my mom is much easier to accept than never hearing her voice again or feeling her arms around me for the rest of my earthly life. I try not to go there.

But at the same time, I want to go there. I want it to be real, to just sink in all at once so I can deal with it and move on. No more of this breaking into tears at random moments, usually when I don’t have a tissue nearby. No more of this ending up a slobbery mess, wiping my nose on my hands and hoping no one saw me. No more of this getting angry at the guy on the radio for praising God for how his mother recovered from a life-threatening illness and wanting to say, “Why don’t you just keep it to yourself, buddy? Not everyone’s mom recovers.” No more of this smiling and nodding when good-intentioned people have it all wrong and tell me my mom is an angel watching me from heaven or is with us in spirit. What does that even mean, with us in spirit?  

I know the truth. My six-year-old nephew knows the truth. Ask him where his grandma is, and he’ll tell you she’s in heaven with Jesus. I know we’ll see her again someday, and it will be amazing. But it’s hard to live in “someday.”

Someday, memories of my mom will comfort instead of hurt. I can barely even look at pictures without feeling a physical ache. Every little thought of her pierces my heart. I know I’ll be thankful for the cards and letters and e-mails I’ve saved, safely tucked away for someday.

Someday, my praise will ring out louder than my cries. My thankfulness for all the years I had with my mother will replace the bitter loneliness for that one person I can’t get near. Someday the unsettled feeling that all is certainly not right with the world will be replaced by the promised peace that passes understanding. Bit by bit, maybe it already is.

But someday is still too far away. Each hour brings it closer, though, and with God and time, I’ve no doubt someday will come. As for right now…right now, I just want a hug from my mom.