Experts say that the majority of our earliest memories start around the age of three or four. They’re often spotty and can even lead to confusion about whether they’re real or a recreation of stories that have been told. Even just the mention of it may have you searching back through a mental Rolodex of memories to find your first distinct recollection.
My first memory is no different.
Born and raised in a small northern Iowa farming town where corn and family roots ran deep, Mom and I frequented the local Kmart. On this particular day, everything changed. There it was, in the center display of the toy aisle. “The Deluxe Barbie Dream House,”’ with its pull elevator, mirrored vanity, and “wood-burning” fireplace. My little heart raced.
I knew better than to stray and usually stuck close to Mom’s side; my short chubby fingers gripping her pinkie as my security lifeline, but today was different.
Today the dreamhouse captured all my attention.
Growing up, I always knew this type of expense, especially on toys, was well outside our budget. Though Mom longed to provide more for her children than the stark, difficult childhood she endured, money remained tight. But what she lacked in finances, she more than made up for in love, laughter, and patience.
About two minutes into my daydream, I spun around quickly to point out something to Mom but realized she was nowhere to be found.
Instant panic flooded my body.
“Mom. Mom. Mom!” Trying to be brave, I began to call for her, each successive try gaining in volume and intensity. Even at a young age, I felt fear rise like bile in my throat as tears pricked my eyes.
Where was she? Where was my mom? Where was my security— my lifeline? I searched each aisle frantically asking every person I saw if they’d seen my mom. “The lady with red hair and a striped blue and white shirt. Her name is Vicki.”
I would dare to say that everyone remembers the first time they couldn’t find their parent. The vast, empty, panicked, hollow feeling that instantaneously floods your body. All you can think of is finding them, finding the one you lost, and holding them again.
After what seemed like days, but was likely only minutes I saw Mom’s face, a blurred mix of relief overtaking her previous panic. She ditched her shopping cart mid-aisle and scooped me up into her soft, squishy arms. Relief and joy flooded over me.
I can still feel the relief of that day—electricity running through my body—knowing my mom would always be there with me. If I was lost, she would find me. If I was hurting, she would heal me, or find someone who could.
Our relationship continued that way for years, through heartbreak and triumph, we always had each other’s backs. Curling up on her lap, even when I was too big to do so, I would dream about our future together. The days in the distance when she would help me raise my children, change careers, and make life-altering decisions.
Everything was the same, until it wasn’t.
In 2010, five years after my mom was diagnosed with ALS, a neuromuscular disease that would slowly melt her body like a burning candle, taking with it her ability to walk, talk, eat, and eventually breathe, we all gathered around her hospital bed in the middle of my childhood home and said goodbye.
I was only 29.
At that moment, as her last breath drained the color from her cheeks, I was once again that terrified little girl, lost, alone, wanting my mom to run down the aisle, scoop me up in her arms, and tell me everything was going to be alright.
Life is different as a motherless mom. There’s no calling mom to ask what she would do or to see if she’ll watch the kids for the weekend. Big, scary, life-altering events continue to happen and all you want is your mom, but what you are left with are the memories.
The memories, I have found, will keep your loved ones closer than you think.
In the years following Mom’s death, my relationship with God wavered. My previously steadfast and robust faith began to crumble under the weight of my grief. The words from my book “This Changes Everything: When Death No Longer Has the Final Say,” sums up the pain we feel when losing a mother, or someone so close to us.
“But your death, in stark contrast, created a vast wound that irrevocably changed the landscape of my soul. Over time, the wound has begun to heal—in its place, a scar I wear as a badge of honor in remembrance. My precious memories of you live in me, so deeply etched that even the winds and sands of time could never erode them.
Well-meaning people, therapists, and friends have told me that grief is a process I must go through. And I agree. Your death is something I’m still processing.
Grief hurts—to the bones, filtering through the marrow kind of pain. It weaved its way into my being, taking up residency. They say grief comes in stages. I’ve seen them all.
The denial was powerful and even surprising, given your death was prolonged by your disease. Years later, I’m still struck by the pang of truth you’re no longer here.
Anger came quickly, expected, given how tightly you were woven into the fabric of my life. I still feel the flames of anger linger in my heart. But my anger comforted me in your absence. It shielded me from the attempts of others to console me. It was my barrier to the rest of the world. I isolated myself from everyone and any unnecessary activity. Blocking all emotion for fear of losing any remaining strength I had, I forced myself into autopilot. Each day was a haze of necessary obligations nestled between the safety of seclusion. Without you, life seemed devoid of the joy and love you radiated. When my anger grew especially strong, I could hear your gentle voice reminding me, “Let go, Sunshine. Don’t be angry too long. God didn’t take me to hurt you but to save me. Wrap yourself in His love, because my love is there too.”
“God didn’t take me to hurt you but to save me.”
With those words, something clicked. The Holy Spirit ignited a spark in me that would change my life, and the lives of everyone my words would reach.
The memories of our loved ones are so strong, they have the ability to keep them with us in the future. This idea is a turning point for all those who grieve, but especially a motherless mom.
Ignited by the fire of the Holy Spirit and this new idea, I began to rewrite my story and encourage others to do the same.
I knew every word my mom would say, how she would respond, and who she was at her core. Armed with these memories, I could experience every trip, every event, and every new life change through her eyes. I could teach my children about her and write letters to myself when I need to hear her words.
Death no longer had the final say because I could rewrite our story – and so can you.
A few years ago, as I was putting my then five-year-old daughter to bed, she gripped a pillow made by “Grandma Vicki,” a woman she’d never met on this side of heaven. Searching for Mom’s smudgy fingerprint she snuggled into the pillow, squeezing with all her might.
With sleepy eyes, she whispered, “Mom, I miss Grandma Vicki.”
As tears trickled down my cheeks, I knew I’d succeeded. My sweet baby girl knew enough about a woman she’d never met to miss her. All because I refused to let her story end. I refused to let death have the final say.
Encouragement for Moms:
My friend, the same is true for you. Whether you’ve lost a mother, friend, aunt, father, spouse, or child, don’t let death steal the key to life. Pick up your pen and voice and rewrite your own grief story.
Ways to rewrite your grief story.
- Rewrite a moment or part of your life your loved one missed with them back in it: What would they say? How would it have been different? What crazy or witty thing would they have said? How would it have changed things?
- Share your favorite memories of your loved one with a friend or family member over coffee: What were their favorite sayings? Did you have an especially good vacation? Did he/she always say something funny? What were her favorite meals to make or eat?
- Take an “honor trip”: A trip for just you and your mom, or a lost loved one—something the two of you would have taken. Document the trip with photos, journals, and mementos. You can see my honor trip with my mom on Instagram starting here: https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck2_TGUjkOb/
- Start a memories box with your kids to share about your mom: If they were old enough to remember her, let them add their memories to the box. If they weren’t there, ask them what they think they would have loved and add those too. Pictures, mementos, objects. The sky is the limit.
- Make a recipe book of her favorite dishes and fix them on her birthday: Or make a playlist of her favorite songs and play them on a road trip.
The options are endless.
My friend, losing someone you were deeply close to will forever alter your soul, especially if it’s your mom. But you can find love and hope knowing that they are always with you, not just spiritually, but in so many ways physically and emotionally too.
Never underestimate the power of rewriting your story. This changes everything.
Prayer for Moms:
Dear Heavenly Father,
Please help your precious child, as she mourns the loss of her mother, to see that through Your love, death no longer has the final say. Help her not ask WHY, but to see WHAT you would have her do with her grief. Comfort her with the grace of knowing that her memories will always keep her mom with her.
In Jesus Name. Amen.
Connect with Sonya:
http://www.sonyajoymack.com
Want to hear more of Sonya’s story? Watch our Moms Night In Conversation on YouTube
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