So here’s post 13 of week 13. Back on track, although to be perfectly honest, I didn’t just write this one – I wrote it last year but never published it. I think its time has arrived.
The old fashioned crocheted doilies with their tiny stitches of finely spun cotton thread and delicate lace patterns had been tucked away in a drawer where they were rarely seen. They weren’t stylish anymore – hadn’t been for many decades. But they were still in good condition, and I admired the handiwork, so I brought them home with me. I folded them carefully and tucked them away in a new drawer.
My momma had been a collector, like many of us are. And like many older people who grew up with very little in the way of worldly possessions, her philosophy was – if it wasn’t completely broken or destroyed, it was kept. You never knew when it would come in handy.
After she died, all of her personal possessions became mine. I remember feeling a little like an intruder going through her things, but yet, at the same time, I could almost see her standing there in the doorway of her bedroom as I sorted through her treasures with that crooked smile, and her hands together, saying “go ahead, you can have those.” And meaning it. Because she had a very generous heart.
I still remember, as a little girl, watching her crochet doilies. It fascinated me. From a simple chain, a beautiful lace doily would emerge after many hours of slow and tedious work. My mom also had some doilies her mother had crocheted many years before. Passed down from one generation to the next. So, I brought them home with me and now that I have a place of my very own, I’ve started using them a little here and there to give my home a bit of an old fashioned and nostalgic feel.
Momma’s crocheted ivory tablecloth graces my dining table, and her colorful vases brighten my kitchen window sill. Her jewelry boxes are on display in my spare bedroom, and when I wear one of her shirts I feel her closeness, just like a warm hug. My mom is gone from this world, but yet her presence remains. I can see her walking through my rooms touching things, making sure they’re just so. Even though she was already gone when I bought my place. Even though she’s never been here before. She’s still here.
It’s a strange thing when someone you love dies. An emptiness in your heart craters open from the sudden vacancy in your life. The feeling of being in suspended animation observing everyone else moving on and there you are stuck in a sorrowful place and time, reliving the last time you saw them, the last time you heard their voice, not wanting to completely let go. And now, after almost two years, enough time has passed that many of my memories are pleasant ones, and I still sense her presence with me.
I can still hear her voice with that almost imperceptible southern lilt that never completely left even after she’d spent the vast majority of her life in the north. And I can still hear her laughter, and how she loved to tell jokes. When I look in the mirror I see that I’m looking more and more like her as the years fly by. Part of me accepts this with grace, and another part tries to remain separate. It’s a very strange feeling indeed.
My mom’s life force is still here. Is it just our memories that cause these feelings? Or is it real? Our minds are very powerful, to be sure. And my imagination is strong. So maybe that’s all it is.
But it works for me.
I know my momma is the happiest she’s ever been, up there in heaven with Jesus and my sister, the two babies she lost in miscarriages, and her parents, and so many others. Maybe that’s why it feels like she’s still hanging around. Her joy at finally being with her Savior has permeated all the way through heaven to reach us down here on teeny tiny earth as we wait for our own deliverance. Is she beckoning us home?
Yeah, maybe that’s it. Until then, her quiet, unobtrusive presence graces my home, making it a peaceful place to return to after a long day at work.
Hold tightly to those good and happy memories of your loved ones who are gone, because those are the memories that will comfort your soul. Like salve applied on a wound, those pleasant memories aid in your healing.
They say time heals all wounds, but I think it’s the good memories. I really do.
