bethlee (bethlee) wrote,


"Oh yeah," Loa told me, looking me assuredly straight in the eyes, "Three years for the death of a parent."

I didn't realize the date. I'd been sick a week and a half now, and recovering quicker than I thought I would last Monday when I was so depressed at being sick; Monday the first of November.

I'd been sick and I'd been really busy so I thought the weekend stress of expectations shifted radically and a friend in task mode not quite she really my friend?...was all there was to it. But no.

Last night I talked with Loa of my summer, and how at Camp of the Woods God gave me back my heart, whole, through the people who had loved my mom, and God said in effect: "Go love."

This morning I come to the computer to find an email from a friend who four years ago flew from Paris to be with mom for a week near the end. He'd remembered her, and us, on her death day. I hadn't realized the date!

Loa, I'm odd: it took four years and perhaps I am still grieving. Missing her.

Sometimes it's in front of my face, sometimes at arm's length, as my friend Dave said it was for him. The grief runs strong because the love was very strong. She was always there from my conception, and she was always praying for me, loving me, representing God to me.

I remember one time walking, remembering something and the thought that it would never come again, her voice or her almost doubled me over. But just at that split second came the grace (it must have been Holy Spirit) to Thank God instead of to pine. I grabbed it, the idea of praise for what was instead of whining for what will never be again.

Oh praise the Lord!
Oh thank him for what you have had!
Oh I had a mother, such as I can never be!

Yet she knew and taught me the most important thing. She knew what she lacked, and she asked God, "Don't let me be cold; give me your love to lavish on my children." He DID! And as I prepared for her to die, asking God "Who's going to..." He gently showed me that all that love was his love through her. That he has others he can send the love through; though it won't be the same package look for it.

Who's going to buy me pretty clothes? Uncle Lem came with a little black dress that weekend.
Who's going to be there when I call? Call Rosie.
Who's going to tell me what I do wrong and how to fix it? I'll do that, my child: I have many means at my disposal.

Thank you Father, for my mother, she was the best.
Thank you Father that "whoever does the will of God my father is my mother...."
Thank you Father, for your love.
I'll never get over it!
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