Fifteen years ago, life as I knew it came to an end.
I celebrated my first Mother's Day as a new mother. It was a bittersweet day. My newborn daughter, the baby for whom I had waited and prayed so long, was precious and perfect and snuggled close to my chest. The lovely spring day offered warm sunlight pouring forth from a bright blue sky. Jim had bought me a pretty corsage to wear to Mass, as is his way, and we took pictures on the front porch, flowers blooming behind us. That was the sweet part.
The bitter part of the day was knowing that my mother was battling for her life in a hospital room two hundred miles away. In the late afternoon, my father called to say that she seemed to be failing and was being rushed back into open heart surgery. We raced to my hometown, and four hours later, in an age before cell phones, I walked through my parents' front door, not knowing what news would greet me.
God, in His mercy, did not allow my mother to die on Mother's Day. She held on for another four days, giving her nine children a little more time to hope and pray, to cling to each other and to our childhood memories, to pretend that we weren't about to face the inconceivable loss of the beautiful woman we loved. On May 13, 1993, my mother's life here on earth came to an end, just eleven days short of her forty-seventh birthday.
Until that day, I had never experienced death. All four of my grandparents were still alive, and hers was the first funeral I ever attended. It was impossible for me to believe that I would never see her again in this life, and I kept dreaming, hoping, believing that she was coming back. I loved her dearly, and I could not fathom life without her. Truly, I did not want to live life without her. The ache of her loss seemed too great to bear.
God, in His mercy, had given me a precious gift just nine weeks before, a beautiful baby girl whom I had named after my mother, not knowing the tragedy about to occur. She became my reason for getting up in the morning. She became my reason for smiling in the midst of pain. She became my reason for believing that life could be good once again.
Shortly after the funeral, a friend of my mom wrote to share that she had lost her own mother when she was only thirteen. I'll never forget the words she wrote:
you will always miss her, but in time you will learn to live without her. I didn't want her words to be true. I didn't want to learn to live without my mother. But time and our Lord have taught me just that. Many times I have longed to talk with her, to share my heart and my kids with her. But that longing is more wistful sadness than piercing pain, as it once was. Sometimes, days, weeks, and even months pass without me thinking of her. That used to bother me, but now I accept it as a blessing. I have learned to live without her.
Still, May is never easy. Mother's Day, the anniversary of her death, and her birthday always lie within a two week span. I try to focus on my own motherhood and the gift of my children, but my mom is never far from my thoughts during the month of our Lady. This year it is even harder as I find myself holding a daughter who carries the deep heartache of having lost her own birthmother. She fights the pain blindly, striking out at all of those around her, especially the one who threatens to take the place of that mother. She yearns to love and be loved yet she is terrified of the risk involved. She's terrified of facing the loss and rejection once again.
Her healing is beyond my power, I know it is. But He has placed her heart in my care and trusted me to lead her into love. I search for ways to help her, I struggle to be patient and kind and not resentful of the attention she demands, I seek the grace that enables me to embrace her in all of her hurt. Such deep hurt can look horribly ugly and hopeless at times.
Today, I find myself wondering...fifteen years ago, was our Lord preparing me for this day? Did He allow my heart to be wounded so deeply that I might be strengthened for this battle? Surely, the heartache I felt at the loss of my mother is but an inkling of what my little girl has endured, yet perhaps it can move me to a deeper compassion for her and a stronger commitment to her healing. Can I find a way to allow it to make me a better mother to this aching child?
Today, I find myself praying...may I be a precious gift to my daughter, as my baby was for me fifteen years ago. May I be her reason for getting up in the morning. May I be her reason for smiling in the midst of pain. May I be her reason for believing that life can be good.
Our Lady of Fatima, pray for us.
May the sweet soul of my dear mother rest in peace. I know with all of my heart that her intercession has sustained me for the last fifteen years, for I feel her loving presence in my darkest moments.
Posing with their masterpieces, these happy cousins are wearing the shirts they designed during our Christmas Family Reunion. It is so interesting to see their individual personalities portrayed in all of their creations. We had elaborate houses with chimneys and birdhouses, and we had simple ones with flat roofs and sparse candy (because it had been eaten in the making, of course). We even had a stable created by my favorite horse lover, Nastia. (Poor Valya's kept falling apart, so she crushed and consumed it before the photo could be taken.) So much fun!
Yes, we are still loyal Tribe fans, all except Valya who boycotted our costume idea. Maybe she's playing the witch that has cursed our team since 1948. Well, at least the Indians offered a better series than the Rockies this year.
When my sister and I returned from our lovely, quiet dinner at a 
