Dear Friends,

My mother died two weeks ago. She stopped breathing in her sleep. Her death was expected. My unexpected lack of knowing what to do next was also expected and lovingly directed by hospice and caregivers at her facility. My mother had more folks in her corner than she knew. This was a happy sad discovery for me.

I currently have all kinds of conflicting feelings, but I will say this:

There is so much love in this world freely given and shared without reservation, expectation, or reciprocation. I am bowled over by the generous and caring nature of people far and wide and close to home who have buoyed our spirits and cared for us these last several weeks. My gratitude is not nearly enough.

A few years ago I mostly stopped saying love and prayers to others in their grief, because it felt empty. The year my friends Jayne and LuAnn died within a few months of each other, “love and prayers” didn’t even touch my grief. I thought of them and what they would say and I thought about our weekly Wednesday paddleboard ritual. I remember a sunny day when I opened my eyes after a restorative practice. The lake was alive with a thousand diamond shaped reflections of sunlight dancing on the water. That memory and sense of warmth and awe and specialness is what I want to send to people. So I say holding or sending you love and light. Also kind of empty, but closer to the mark maybe.

It is sadly funny (oxymorons are my favorite) that none of us can truly understand or empathize with a grieving person until it happens to us. I became a better speech therapist once I had children. All those thoughts and fears and expectations and frustrations of my students’ parents became my own. I became a better friend once I lost a friend of my own. I can now truly mourn (albeit delayed) with my friends who have lost parents because now I understand. And I am so touched by those who have reached out to me who have lost their mothers. Their empathy feels different. I can dare to say something to them that someone else might not understand or misread. And with those like me, who shared a complicated relationship with their mother, it is safe to say all the things without looking as if I don’t care or as if my grief is somehow less than.

Grief is still grief. Loss is still loss. Your mom is still your mom.

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I didn’t really intend to write a post about losing my mother today. I am far behind on my usual weekly Advent posts. I have, however, experienced Advent in a new way this year. I have experienced waiting on a whole new level. Each candle: hope, peace, joy, and love has had a different meaning this season. My hope that a life free of specific obligations is coming. Peace for one who so desperately needed it brings me peace. Daring to find joy is essential in fighting the downward spiral that is always lurking in dark corners. And love. Love from and for neighbor is the antidote for this crazy world in which we live. All of it is possible through Him who loved us first, which is why we have the white Christ candle in the center of the other four.

So, Light a candle. Laugh a lot. Love all the time. And be at peace.

Forever on the journey with you,

Marla