Mother's Day

Mother’s Day is always a little bittersweet for me. I lost my mom when I was 15—just on the edge of growing up, at the point in life when I needed her most but didn’t yet know how to ask for it. Now that I’m a mother myself, the day carries layers of both joy and heartache.

What makes it harder is that, as an adult, I never got the chance to really know her. I never got to have those long conversations where you start to understand your parent not just as your mother, but as a person with her own story. I wish I could have asked her about her dreams, her fears, how she managed the hard days, and what she hoped for me.

I also carry the sadness of knowing that my mother didn't get to be raised by her own mom. She was passed from one household to another—loved, perhaps, but still missing that central connection that every child deserves. There’s something heartbreaking in that pattern, and I often wonder how it shaped her, how it shaped me.

There have been, and still are, days when I realize I don’t always know how to mother, because I didn’t have that example long enough. After she died, several mothers from church stepped in to fill the gap. And when Mark and I married, his mom helped fill it, too. Still, I often wondered—and still wonder—if I’m doing it right. I’m sure I’ve made mistakes. But I hope our kids know how deeply I love them, and now, how much I love their daughters, too.

Today, I honor my mom’s memory by loving as fully as I can.

My mother is holding me. Glenine (the sister who died in November)
is in the back and Becky is up front.

My mother - doesn't she look pretty
and happy?

My mother and me

Our twins when they were newborns - they made
me a mother.

Gran and her girls

 

The whole gang - son and daughter
and son-in-law and daughter-in-law,
along with Mark and the three
granddaughters