My Mother in Heaven & My Children on Earth

On By GriffithsKLIn fiction

My mom died. There. I said it. It still doesn’t feel real to me, even though I held her hand and looked into her eyes as she left this earth. God’s gift to me was that she not go alone, in a strange bed in a strange place. Abandoned. My heart could not bear the idea.

Mom and me, Thanksgiving 2013.

My mom went into the hospital with multiple problems, including a stroke. It wasn’t until I spoke to her ICU nurse who explained Mom had status elepticus (a long-ass seizure) that it began to dawn on me I might never hear my mother’s lilting voice say, “Hi, Kelly” ever again.

If I understood music notation, I could tell you the notes she used when she picked up my calls. “Hi” was in the middle of the bar. “Kel” was way up there, a high note. And “ly” dropped below the “Hi,” whatever note that was. The lyrical way Mom greeted me is burned into my memory because it said, I’m so glad to hear your voice, Kelly.

Now I have the soundtrack to Terms of Endearment stuck in my head. It was my gymnastics floor routine music, and Mom said it always made her think of me. Now that she’s gone, that song makes me think of her. And I am run over by the freight train of legacy. Love your kids, Kelly, before the same fate befalls you. The one that claims all of us. Want to cry?

When I came face to face with my mortality, I stopped working on my opus and made meatloaf (a step up from our usual loveless salad). I wrote love notes to Bob, crush-hugged my kids, drank beer, took long, sobbing walks with Abbott, and turned my heart inside out on this blog. I wanted to be understood. And still do. Once I’m dead, others will interpret me based on how I lived. Let that sink in. Once you’re dead, others will interpret you based on how you lived. Your intentions die with you. And your dreams, hopes, regrets. Will people know you loved them? It is vitally important that my children, family, and friends know I love and appreciate them, that they have real estate in my heart.

When a blogger writes a post, there’s usually one thought that is the reason for all the other words and phrases, one central idea that is important enough to bring her to the keyboard and keep her there. For this post, the thought is this: my mom is in Heaven. I can’t tell her I love her anymore. She can’t apologize and neither can I. But my children are here, on Earth. I still have time to tell them I’m sorry and I’m proud of you and I love you in all the ways we moms have at our disposal to communicate such weighty things, to give the blessing.

What is the blessing?

You are valued, child. Cherished. Loved. And not because you’re brilliant or beautiful or handsome. Not because of your wit or charm or any form of perfection you bring to the world. I love you because you’re my daughters and sons. I may hurt or disappoint you or make you cry. Or infuriate you. But I won’t stop loving you. When my turn comes to be gone, I hope the memory of us will make you smile. That’s it. The idea. Not new. Just mine right now, as I miss my mom and get checked by grief when I least expect. In the line at Wendy’s. Putting away the dishes. A whiff of someone’s cigarette.

It’s high time I wrote new posts to my husband and children. But for now, I’ll share this letter I wrote to Bob’s beautiful mom who died when we were eighteen:

https://kellygriffiths.wordpress.com/2018/09/11/a-letter-to-gigi/

27 thoughts on “My Mother in Heaven & My Children on Earth”

  3. Oh, Kelly. ❤ That was beautiful. Thank you for sharing your heart in this time. My prayers go with you and yours. I'm so grateful for you, as I know many are. I'm grateful you got to be with your dear mom throughout life, even as her life on earth ended. ❤

    Reply

  5. Kelly, my heart aches for you. I hate when another friend joins the mom-in-heaven crowd. But sometimes it’s a comfort to be able to say to a friend: it sucks she’s not right here–and they totally get it. After 15 years of missing my mom, I can say there are more smiles than tears now. And I think you’re right–if when you’re gone people smile to think of you, you’ve done this living thing right. Of course grief is singular, but it’s also a shared thing. Meatloaf, long walks, and all the hugs are good medicine. Be good to yourself–and soak in those hugs!

    Reply
  7. peglovesjesus's avatar peglovesjesus

    What beautiful healing words! And thanks for the challenge to love our children well.

    It’s never easy to lose our mommas, even the imperfect ones, which is all of them/us. Praying grace and peace over you as journey through your grief and memories. When my momma died, I read A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis. His wise and honest words helped me process the myriad emotions of my grief.

    Reply

  8. Kelly, this piece is extraordinary, both in the honesty and the precision of the message. This is probably a not-right thing to ask, and I apologize if it comes across as insensitive (not my intent, at all) but would you mind if I shared this on Bonnywood? I fully understand if you’d rather I not, as it is so deeply personal, but I think others could benefit from hearing your voice, your hard-earned wisdom. Just give it a think, take you time, and let me know. Hugs.

    Reply

      1. Hurray! Okay, it’s a bit hectic right now, what with the holiday and all, but perhaps I can get something together for the middle of next week? I’ll let you know before I do so, and thank you for letting me share. Hugs, Part Two.

  10. Pingback: Blogger Spotlight: Kelly at “Kelly Griffiths” – Bonnywood Manor

  12. Came here from Brian’s page and just had to comment. Having lost my own mother a few years ago, I wept when I read your beautiful post. ‘Never being able to say I love you mom again’ struck home. Hard.
    Very sorry for your loss.
    ❤️

    Reply

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