Losing Hope, Gaining Love

Five years ago today, my mother left this world. If you know anything about us, you know we were estranged most of her time here. Regardless of that fact, there was never a day that went by that I didn’t want to restore our relationship. I needed a mother. I wanted to share all of my little blessings with her. I had hoped to share all of my trials and all of my victories with her someday.

That day never came.

As much as I grieved losing her physically, the loss of hope, that could things would ever be resurrected between us, is what I grieved the most. There would never be another tomorrow when she told me how sorry she was. Although, I forgave her anyway. There would never be a moment, when she celebrated all of the joys life had brought me. There would never be a space held for me in her life, to help be battle through adversity. There would never be another opportunity for her to love me, like I needed to be loved.

I wasn’t able to be there for her when she took her last breath. Mainly because I wasn’t welcomed. But also, because I had complete peace that it would have resurfaced pain in my own life, I fought so hard to heal. Some may call that cowardly or unchristian like, which may be so. I had to protect myself. Which I grew to understand, was the most important thing.

Since her death, I’ve had many similar life situations that my mom and I had faced, arise with my own daughter. With each one, I’ve been able to reflect on what I so desperately needed from my mother, and become that person for my girl. Battles that she fought internally that she could never overcome.  Generations of dysfunction, laid to rest, with each passing trial.

I lost hope that my mom would ever be what I so desperately needed her to be, but I became everything that she tried so hard to be, but couldn’t.

Waiting on the Willow

 

We planted a weeping willow tree a few years back. I always dreamt of having one in my own yard. I’m not sure why, given the way they deceived me as a child. My dad would always tell the story of us going to pick our own switches, and choosing the smallest ones from the willow. Only to find out the thinner the switch, the more it’s bends,  and the more painful it stings. Needless to say, we learned real quick to not ever pick one of its wispy branches again. 

However, every whimsical landscape I’ve feasted my eyes upon, has one….and we needed one too. Our home is somehow shrinking in size, the bigger our kids get. I’ve been researching moving into one with more space for years. A few weeks back it came to me, while trying to make a decision on possibly relocating….I would really like to wait on the willow. I would like to wait and see how beautiful it makes our yard someday. My discontentment of my own space, or lack thereof, immediately ceased. 

Then, I remembered how hard we had prayed and hoped for a home of our own. I remembered renting for fourteen years. Twelve of those in a nine hundred square foot home, and one bathroom for the six of us. I remembered our childhoods of growing up in trailers on and off, and dreaming of a dwelling place built in something other than tin. I remember how huge this place once felt, compared to where we had been before. I remembered the joy it brought us finally obtained our goal.

Today, while thinking of this tree and its significance, this scripture came to mind.

Upon the willows in the midst of it

We hung our harps.

Psalm137:2

The scripture is speaking about the Jews being held captive in Babylon, and remembering their homeland. In hope that someday they would be able to return. The willow is a sign of all that was lost, yet also, of hope.

We’ve experienced tremendous loss, but know God has provided for us, more than we ever could have hoped for. And as I’m sitting here in my porch swing watching and waiting, I will rest in the fact, that with each new leaf and limb, will bring and even greater blessing🍃