Two Dogs & 12 Years Later

Soon, I will have officially experienced more of my life without my mom than I did with her.

 

It's fine, I'm totally fine. The only reason I'm even pointing it out is for the beauty of it all.

 

Everyone chooses to deal with these moments in their own way, because everyone grieves differently and there is nothing wrong with that.  Usually, I attempt to ignore the anniversary.  I know it's coming, I can't pretend like it's not there, but my pain isn't any different because of the number on the calendar.  I always have plenty of reminders to keep me from breezing past it entirely, but I don't let it impact how I would live that day if it had a different number attached.  I have bad days in February, and great days in August.  The date simply serves as a way to keep the time. 

 

The hardest part for me is not having any clue what she would think of me now.  She left me before I could become anything.  Some say it's easier to lose a parent when you are younger, because you remember less.  Some say it's easier when you are older, because you had more time with them.  In a way, I saw both sides.  I have a ton of great memories, but none of the moments that I want.  I never got to know her as a person, I never got to ask questions about her hopes & dreams and learn her personality.  All I have are memories of being a painfully awkward child & having no clue that things would ever change. 

 

Well, the awkward part hasn't changed, but I'm beginning to appreciate it as part of my charm.

 

After her death, we found journals that she had started for us when we were little.  I know that there is no way she could have known what was coming, but her words have always made me question otherwise.  It's composed of silly stories of my childhood that I don't remember, and little insights to what she saw in me as a toddler.  A few years ago I vowed to myself that I would do everything in my power to live up to the incredible three-year-old that she described.

 

One of the stories is from Christmas Eve, a few days after my 4th birthday.  As a tradition, we would read "The Night Before Christmas" before bed, but that year she decided to also read us "The Story of Christmas".  Apparently, when she was finished, I looked at her with tears in my eyes.  Um...what?  I was barely 4 years old! We didn't attend church, we didn't read the Bible, why in the world would I have been moved to tears by the birth of Christ? 

 

Did part of me know that 20 years later He would be the most important part of my life? 

 

I think of where I am today, and follow the series of intertwining events that have made me this person.  I am in constant awe of the countless things that I have gained through this loss, and am doing my best to take advantage of each opportunity.  Over the last several months, I have been working on a year-long writing project, I don't know that anyone will ever see it, but it has been a reason for me to challenge myself to live in an entirely different way.  I have been forcing myself out of my comfort zone and into a place where I can truly serve with all that I have been given, preparing to go wherever I am sent without question.  I've met tons of new, very different people, I'm serving on a mission trip, I'm going bungee jumping; I do everything I can to fill my time with whatever anyone needs, and not surprisingly, it has turned out to be exactly what I need.  I know I have a long way to go, and I will make a ton of mistakes, but my life now is much less about me & I couldn't be happier.

  

Two dogs & 12 years later, I don't know if I've done anything that has made her exceptionally proud, but I have definitely given us a lot to talk about when I see her again. So thank you, Mom, for seeing so many wonderful things in me when I was young, and giving me something to strive for.  Thank you for knowing exactly what I needed to hear before I ever needed to hear it.  I truly hope that the second half of my life has been as fun to watch as the first half, and that it keeps getting better as we go.