Dear Mom

 Dear Mom,

 

It’s been a long time since we breathed the same air; too many years, yet the life you lived continues to provide me with sustenance. Thank you for giving me life, and teaching me how to live.

 

Thank you for exemplifying joy in all things, and for the gift of appreciating the simple things.

 

Thank you for teaching me the importance of family, and how to extend unconditional love that reaches the wayward soul.

 

Thank you for showing me who Jesus was to you, and for living a faith-filled life in front of me.

 

Thank you for protecting me from harsh realities, allowing time for me to process truth.

 

Thank you for teaching me how to love. Because I lost you when I was so young, I have an overwhelming desire to be present for my family. No sacrifice is too great, no mountain too high, no valley too low. My greatest treasures are not things, but the ones God gave me. 

 

Thank you for teaching me how to die. Your courage and determination are still alive in my memories. Philippians 4:13, your favorite Bible verse, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” gave you courage to die, knowing Who was waiting on the other side of the veil. 

 

Thank you for being my mom, fifteen short years on earth, forever in eternity. 

You were a gift to our family; God’s choice for me. You are missed especially on Mother’s Day and Christmas, but also in the everyday moments of life. Memories of you are treasured in the depths of my heart.

When We We Were Ten, An Heirloom

     

This is an essay I wrote for a writing contest through the Foothills Writer's Guild. I'm posting it today in honor of my mom on Mother's Day. I hope she knows how much she's been missed through the years. I carry her memory with me through words and photos.

When We Were Ten, An Heirloom

By Cindy O'Brien

     Family pictures are the connection between generations. They tell a story without words, a story of love and loss, pain and sorrow, and remind us of the significance of certain events. No two stories are the same because every family has its own unique way of living. However, every family has its share of tragedy and triumph. The pictures we pass down from one generation to the next tell our story.

     While sitting at my writing desk, my eyes wander to the pictures on the shelf above me. Various family photos stare back at me, faces of those long gone haunt me. I want to know their stories; the ones lived in private. What were the dreams that went unfulfilled, the family secrets never shared? What did a typical Monday morning feel like, and what were the sorrows that kept them awake through the night? Time and life circumstances intervened and questions went unanswered.

Cindy - 10 Yrs. Old - 4th Grade

     Two little girls, ten or eleven years old, sit in separate frames on my shelf. I recognize the girl on the right. I remember the day the picture was made when I was in the fourth grade. Were my bangs long enough to put behind my ear, or would the photo capture the tooth I broke while twirling around the seesaw bar? 

     The girl on the left is a mystery, though I know her name, and shared a home with her. She taught me how to sew, and how to care for a home and family. She taught me about faith and perseverance, and yet so much was unspoken.

     If I could reach into the photo of my ten-year-old self, I’d take her face in my hands, and make her look into my eyes. I’d tell her to be curious, speak up, and ask the hard questions. She was such a timid little girl. Most of the time, the book in her hands diverted any attention to those around her, except maybe her beloved cat, Boots. The world she lived in was quiet and structured. I want to tell her not to be so critical of herself. Her fifty-something future self is still dragging that burden. I’d tell her to enjoy reading, but lay the book aside and find something to laugh about.

Juanita - 10 or 11 Yrs Old

     The picture sitting next to my ten-year-old self is more precious to me than diamonds or gold. My mother, hair in pigtails, freckle faced, and almost smiling, rests a few inches from my own freckled face. The resemblance catches my breath every time I look at her. What did that little girl do for fun? Did she have girlfriends? Did she like to read like me? Her childhood was saddled with The Great Depression and World War II. Did those events affect her everyday life? Did she enjoy the simplicity of the early fifties as a teenager? What were her dreams as she stood on the edge of freedom? Photos reveal a young woman at the cusp of everything good and hopeful. That woman beckons me to know her. But, as sand through an hourglass, that time is gone forever. 

     Her life was cut short by cancer at thirty-eight years of age. The memory of the two of us, heads together, comparing our ten-year-old selves would never find a place in my history. We passed in and out of each other’s lives for a few short years. I carry her DNA, her voice, hands and feet, and yet she is unknown to me. 

     The ache of missing her has lessened with the passing of time and years of counseling. There will always be a mother-sized hole in my heart that no one else can fill, though I’ve tried. I’m left with a photo, an heirloom, a reminder of little girls who grew out of their freckles, and for a fleeting moment, shared a love that will never die.

Happy Mother's Day to all the women who've poured themselves into my life. You know who you are and I love you! It takes a Godly village to raise a child, and my God has been faithful to place wonderful women who have loved and mentored me.

As a side note, this piece won 1st Place in a non-fiction category in the Spring 2018 Foothills Writer's Guild contest.

Perfect Peace on the Other Side

Someone asked me recently…”How did we get to this place?”

I thought to myself, do you want the long version, or a simple, rehearsed answer? The road that led to “this place” began more than fifty years ago. And isn’t that the way it is with all of us? We are who we are at this very moment because of the accumulation of life experiences.

Writing about the hard places is hard work, and also scary. While I want to help people overcome their own fears and insecurities, I find it difficult to expose mine. Writing teachers stress you shouldn’t write about something for public reading until you’ve worked through it, and come out the other side. I think I’ve finally gotten there, to the other side.

I don’t want to miss an opportunity though, to reflect on how far I’ve come.

I know there are people suffering in silence with grief and sorrow, guilt and shame. There is a way out of the pit these emotions throw us in. I’ve been there and can tell you it’s possible to overcome.

Several years ago I was weighed down with burdens too old to name. It felt like I was walking through life with a chain wrapped around my leg. Every time I tried to move forward in joy, the chain pulled tight to remind me I was different. I was bound together with links of several broken chains, each representing a different hurt or grief.

But there was One who loved me enough to break the chains and strongholds of my life. He protected me, walked with me, and gave me strength when I thought I had none. He heard every cry of my heart, saw every tear, and every broken place in my soul where the enemy had sown lies and mistrust. He confronted me with the hate I’d harbored for those who hurt me, and replaced it with forgiveness. 

God placed two, amazing, gifted, Christian counselors in my life who walked me through the painful steps of healing and recovery. He surrounded me with godly friends who never gave up on me. He gave me a husband who endured the worst of my brokenness, and loved me anyway. He gave me a son who checked on me every day to make sure I was ok.

Bonnie Gray says in her book, Finding Spiritual Whitespace,“Perfect peace from God isn’t found by forgetting. Peace is ours if we dare to remember our pain and our sorrow, and experience our fears fully with Jesus.” 

This is my testimony in a nutshell. There are many good resources for healing in our communities, but I’m convinced that healing of the soul can only come through the One who created me, and died for me. Anything else will never be enough, though may grant temporary relief.

No matter what you’re going through, God is enough. If you truly seek Him, He is able to completely resurrect your life and give you a firm foundation to rebuild. Your pain does not need to define you any longer. It need not demand anymore of your life, the only life you’ll have on this earth.

On this Mother’s Day, I celebrate the peace I’ve found. My parents would’ve been so disappointed if I’d let my childhood destroy my future. My mom was the strongest woman I know. I learned how to die, but I also learned how to live because of her influence. Her favorite Bible verse was Philippians 4:13: I can do everything through Him who gives me strength. He gave her strength to fulfill His purpose for her. My goal is to do the same, whatever that may be. 

Happy Mother’s Day to all the women who have poured love and kindness into my life. I am blessed beyond measure to have so many that have been Jesus to me. You are loved.

I Wonder What Her Dreams Were?

Mother's Day. The day set aside on our calendar to honor the women in our lives who love us like no other. She may, or may not be related, that matters not. The most important thing is that she know how you feel about her.

This is my favorite secular holiday and yet, I have bittersweet memories intertwined with this special day.

Juanita Bailey Goff-my mom 1947

My mom died in December of 1974 and every Mother's Day since that time, there is an ache that doesn't go away. There is an emptiness that she alone could fill.

In the pictures I've shared in this post, we're about the same age. The photo of Mom was taken in 1947. She was about eleven years of age. I was in the fifth grade at Danville Grade School. I was probably ten years old at the time of this picture.

Me - Circa 1969

As I look into the face of the girl who would become my mom, I wonder what her dreams were? What did she want to be when she grew up? Did she love dolls as much as I did? Did she love to play house like I did? Was she as independent as I am? I think I can answer that one…she moved to Washington D.C. upon her high school graduation and worked for the F.B.I.

When I think about her life to come, she had no idea that in ten short years my dad would sweep her off her feet in August and marry her in November. I wonder if she dreamed of a storybook romance? It happened for her.

I wonder if she ever thought about being a mommy? She had the best mom. She was loving, kind, nurturing, humble. She had the most beautiful porcelain skin, soft and supple. And she loved Jesus.

She had no idea, when she was eleven years old, that cancer would invade her body, and shorten her life. But I'm sure she had dreams.

My favorite thing then…my favorite thing now

I do know one of her greatest wishes though.  It's a prayer from her grown-up self.

I was reminded this morning as I was reading from Jesus Calling. This happens all the time. I'll write something, and the next day I get confirmation on what I wrote. It happened again with this post.

My mom's favorite verse was Philippians 4:13: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." When I read it this morning, I was reminded of her strength and her faith.

My dad told me, after she died, that they prayed together every night before they went to sleep. He said she prayed every night she would live long enough to see me get old enough to take care of my brother and our house. I'm sure it took all the strength God could give her to pray that prayer. What mother wants to leave her children? But she was asking the God she knew to be faithful to her, to give her this request. And He did.

The last few years of her life were difficult. It would have been easier to give up and go on to Jesus. She suffered for us. Her eleven year old self could never have imagined the pain she would eventually go through. We're not meant to know the future.

Circa - 1964

Our lives were different, hers and mine. I've had the joy of watching my children grow up; something she didn't get to experience. I've lived a healthy life, free of pain. I've been able to enjoy lunches with friends, vacations with family, traveling all over the world. I've been to the place she would have loved to go the most, Loretta Lynn's, Butcher Holler. She adored Loretta, had every album she ever made, and I knew every word of every song, still do to this day.

Her granddaughter, and namesake, Bailey, has been swept off her feet by her prince charming. We're planning a wedding together; something my mom and I didn't get to do.

But, I can't complain because I've been taught more through her death about the faithfulness of God. I've never understood why she had to die so young, but I finally stopped asking "why." Some things in life are a mystery and we're to accept them based on the sovereignty of God.

I'm there now. It was time to let go.

I'm thankful for glimpses of her in the mirror and in family members. I love pictures. I can be found wrapped up in albums, tears spilling down my cheeks. My children know the drill and I hear an, "Oh Mom, don't cry."

A wedding is coming up…Her legacy lives on in my children because of His faithfulness.

When little girls dream…

Happy Mother's Day
Cindy