A Sunday Morning...A Lot Like Today

"It's July 1st," my wife said this morning as we waited for our day to begin.

"Yup," I replied. It wasn't until I saw my sister's Facebook post that I realized it was the anniversary of my mother's passing.

Eleven years.

I've got two reference points when it comes to my parent's deaths since they're both gone. Eleven years after my father died (almost to the day...), I was living in Provo, Utah, learning how to speak/write/read the Danish language in preparation to live for two years in Europe and serve a church mission. I grew up in those eleven years, from a child barely turned eight-years old to someone who could legally vote and someone who was moving away from his home state for the first time in his life.

Funny how time is relative. The past eleven years, my kids have made that kind of progress. I still feel the same, except for more aches, more body weight, more problems with the house and the cars.

I found myself outside several times today. Eleven years ago today it was Sunday, a little warmer than it was today. I was at my home across the street from where I grew up, across the street where my mother lay in her bed--the same place she'd been the entire previous week, unmoving, unconscious. I got a call from my siblings asking me to come over. I did and within the hour, she was gone.

While out tonight I snapped a picture of my childhood home. It looks different now. The landscaping's changed, we never had a basketball standard out front, nor did we have a big tree on the corner of the lot. Cars were parked behind--an option no longer available. Both my parents passed away on a Sunday, my father in February 1974, my mother July 1st, 2007. The both died in their bedroom, both in the morning.

"It's July 1st." It won't always fall on a Sunday like it did today. It will always fall in summer. Yes, it was a little cooler than the same day eleven years ago. I hope my parents enjoyed the day, hanging out together and remembering the day as a reunion, not a separation. I'm sure they did.

To Penny And Scott...

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To Penny And Scott

The announcement of your mother’s passing is difficult news to hear, be it for those who knew her personally, or for others, like myself, who know only some of her children. Losing a mother is tough, for a mother is given a sacred call, a call to nurture, to protect, to teach, to love unconditionally. And when that person has left us, there remains a void, a space that can never be filled or replaced.

Since losing my mother several years ago, I’ve wondered which is harder, losing a parent as a child or as an adult. Having experienced both, the answer is far from a simple examination of the facts. I hardly knew my father, not his personality anyway. As a child I knew him as a father who worked hard and who built things. In the four decades since he passed, I’ve gotten to know of him, his work ethic, his history, the incredible man he was, but getting to know him personally, well…that will happen at a later date.

But my mother—oh, I knew her well. She was both father and mother to three children, raising them alone. She was my protection, my advocate, my security, my friend. As I get older and many of my childhood friends are beginning to lose their parents, I hope they realize what a blessing it’s been for them to be able to just have a conversation with them, to tell them of their day, or how the grandkids are growing up way too fast. I hope they’ve taken advantage of that elusive element that slips through our fingers like sand on a beach and that, once gone, can never be recovered—the element of time.

I remember at my mom’s viewing someone asked me a question of how long we lived in that mobile home we parked in front of the house that my dad was building and never got to finish before he died. I told them I didn’t know (I was only four or five at the time we lived in that mobile home…). I told them I’d find out. I actually turned to look for my mother to ask her that simple question, a question she knew, but she was gone, and not only gone for that moment, but until we can again talk of such things.

So, to Penny and Scott and your family, I feel for you during this time. From what you’ve written I sense a love for your mother that is hallowed, and from what I know of you, she did a great job at being a mom. I pray for your family during this time and for the times that will come when you’ll miss her so much that your hearts will ache. When moms leave us, there remains a void, a space that can never be filled or replaced.

And, when you think about it, that’s really a good thing. God bless.

* Photo used without permission and will be removed if asked