Things I Need To Say to My Mom

Saying what you want to say to someone who might die soon is hard. Although sometimes the moment is expected, that doesn’t make it easier to make sure everything that needs to be said gets said. Often you don’t know that you won’t have another moment, and all those words remain locked inside the grief or drop to the ground near a graveside, never reaching the one you love. Sometimes, there is denial that the end is near, and that makes it impossible to speak because there is no acknowledgement that death is even approaching, the thought unbearable. 

The writer of Ecclesiastes broaches death in the last chapter and speaks of the spirit returning to God, urging his audience to remember God:

Remember Him before the silver cord is broken and the golden bowl is crushed, the pitcher by the well is shattered and the wheel at the cistern is crushed; then the dust will return to the earth as it was, and the spirit will return to God who gave it. (12:6-7, NASB) 

Whether we want to deal with or not, death is a reality for us all, and the past year and a half have placed death ever before us. Aside from COVID and its harsh realities, there is a world of hurts and diseases that continue. Old age creeps upon us all if we are blessed (or maybe not so blessed sometimes it feels) to walk this earth for a while. Death comes to us all.

All that to say, my mom has breast cancer and has surgery tomorrow. I have been thinking for weeks of all the things I need and want to say to her and find myself unable to speak, so I write, just in case. While you may think this morbid, she won’t, so here goes:

Dear Mom, 

There are some things I need to say to you, but I would cry (who am I kidding, I already am and my dog is looking at me like I’ve gone insane), so I am writing them down here for you to read before I see you tonight:

1. I was never as good as you thought I was. I made the horrible mistake as a youth of measuring myself against others, and I made sure to always pick out the worst as a measure, making myself look good. Without particulars (don’t ask—they are long forgiven), here is my confession to you.
2. You were a better mom than you thought you were. I know your background and raising weren’t ideal, but they were the ones God gave you, and then He gave me to you. It didn’t matter. I was loved and secure and never doubted for more than a minute or two at a time that you gave me your best, even though (as moms do) you often frustrated me.
3. I think about you way more than I talk to you, which is to my shame. Picking up the phone would have been unselfish, and I find myself lost in the moments of work or business far too much. Please forgive me. 
4. Your enthusiasm for life and play challenged me. I am not sure I ever really learned how to let go and have fun, but you liked to play, and I caught some of that. :)
5. I have your competitive spirit. Honestly, I want to be the very best at every single thing I do, and I didn’t realize until recently I got that from you. The desire to win can be both a blessing and a curse, and it probably worked much better for you being a PE teacher than it has for me. 
6. You’re a really good cook. I know I’ve harassed you all these years by saying I learned how from Grandmother, but honestly, your cooking is wonderful, and I have always loved coming home to taste it. And you were so patient in those early years of marriage when I had questions about how to cook anything you cooked, which you usually did without a recipe—not quite sure I’ll ever get the cornbread just right like yours.
7. Your ability as an artist astounds me. I can’t fathom how your able to capture things just right, and I can’t fathom how you can’t see the beauty in so much of what you paint and draw and quilt.
8. Your willingness to support my love for music is a gift beyond comparison. You found someone to teach me and carried me to lessons late in the evenings when I know you were exhausted and would have rather sat down with a book and propped up your feet. I know Bach and Mozart and Beethoven weren’t your favorite to listen to me painstakingly try to first play and then memorize when I was in college. I will never forget you yelling from the kitchen one evening to feel free to play anything else . . . :) You made chicken fingers and suppers and lunches for band camp, slaving away in a hot kitchen to feed the people who were teaching me, too. I appreciated it then, but I appreciate it so much more now.
9. You taught me to make up my bed and expected me to do it every day. I still do, even Mary’s hospital corners (it really does help keep the sheets in place). You expected me to keep things neat and clean. I don’t always now, but I know how. You taught me how to be a keeper at home even when I didn’t keep my place. It isn't a small thing.
10. You have always found joy and pride in what I do, even if no one else does. It's a mom's job, I know, but you've encouraged me greatly--except for that time when you told me I used big words and wrote too much (insert laughing/crying face emoji here).  
11. You took me to church from the time I was little, even when you didn’t fully understand. You led me to God. You showed me a passion for His Word that I still have today. You sinned often and asked forgiveness just as frequently, not expecting perfection from me. That’s something I put on myself. You showed me how to fear God and His holiness that much of the world doesn’t have a clue about today.

This list is probably long enough because it is public and I should be packing right now instead of sitting here typing these words and crying, but I want you to know the conversation won’t ever really be over after you’re gone until I see you again in heaven. I will think, how did mother do this? I will talk to you out loud as I walk around my house. I will fuss at you because I am just like you, and sometimes that frustrates me. I will look at my children and see you in them, mannerisms they have because you were my mother. I will look at your paintings you’ve drawn and your quilts you’ve gifted me and think of you. I will wonder how in the world I can exist knowing you’re not in this place with me right now when I need you. I will want a hug that you were never really good at giving and miss you pinching me with those sharp nails of yours when you were picking at me. I will miss hearing your banter with Daddy in the kitchen and you sitting in his lap and him pretending it was punishment. I will cry and miss you and be all hormonal and stuff even while I know you are with Jesus enjoying worshiping Him forever and being with Him without any pain. I will miss you when my other grandchildren that aren’t yet are born, wishing you could see them.  I will probably cry when my husband looks at me and calls me Smoky because I am acting just like you and being a little too strong willed or stubborn. Oh, Mama, I do love you, and I wanted you to know all these things today because we might not have a tomorrow together. 

Isn’t cancer really a blessing sometimes? I wouldn’t have said all this if you weren’t having this painful surgery tomorrow. Because Jesus died for you and for me, we will see each other again, even if we don’t see each other for long after tomorrow. Through Jesus, God makes the enemy, death, the means of entry into His kingdom in heaven. Because of Him, cancer, this thorn in our world, does not have the final say and death doesn’t have its sting: “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Cor. 15:55-57, KJV). Even if your "silver cord" is broken tomorrow, I will see you soon.

Love, your daughter,

Kelly