Searching my bookcase, I chose a small book that had been there for years. “Hmm…might be worth a re-read,” I mused, opening a page. And there it was, gentle as a feather falling to earth, “Dear Mom” – in her handwriting – “I hope you like this book as much as I did. Love, Robin.” I sat in the nearest chair and with the memory came tears. How she loved sharing everything with me, her excited voice on the phone, “Guess what!” Her memory was with me all that day.
Memories are as unpredictable as birds. For bereaved parents, memories can arrive as cheery guests or painful tormentors. In the years since cancer took our daughters, Robin and Sara, my memories are often mixed – both welcome and dreaded – firing up explosions of joy, gratitude, intense longing and sorrow. They come swarming in when I look at photos, hear a certain song or visit a favorite place. Other times they appear out of the blue, barging in uninvited like raucous ravens, catching me by surprise. Or as gently as a falling feather.
I believe that memories are blessings. They speak to the history of our love, as it seems they are all we have left. As mothers, we recall the moment when we first knew our baby was there, hidden away deep inside. And finally holding him in our arms, amazed at such beauty. Robin was the child I prayed for, having waited five years for her. How we loved her independence, her determined spirit, her happy nature. We miss that so much. In the hospital she often woke from her morphine haze to call out, “Is my mom here?” That is one of my mixed memories. Sara was the tail-end of four daughters, but she stood her ground with feistiness and wild red hair. She was also funny and sweet, and she gave us grandchildren. I remember the sad eyes of the hospice nurse, as I held Sara, weeping.
Though our children are gone from this world, our memories can help ease them back into our hearts and bring us hope. Emily Dickinson’s poem, Hope is the Thing with Feathers speaks of birds that “perch in the soul.” They are there to sing and keep us warm, “in the chilliest land and on the strangest Sea,” which is certainly where we are now. So, we hang onto our memories fiercely, gratefully, because they remind us of who we are and where we have been. And we need that now more than ever. We can be creative in holding those memories. We can write journals or make scrapbooks about our life with our child or write letters to him or her, expressing things we never got to say. One mother I know has a party to celebrate her son’s birthday, where his friends enjoy memories of their happy times with him.
Shared memories and stories keep our children with us and ease our grief. After Sara left, my heart was in added pain over her two children, now motherless at ages 8 and 12. I wanted desperately for them to remember their mom. But because we did not live nearby, I decided to make a book for them with stories of Sara as a girl, before they knew her. Her siblings and I wrote our memories—often humorous—in a large album with photos, mementos, and Bible verses, and gave it to Sara’s children. Hopefully, our storytelling has been a comfort and connection for them, and these memories will become part of their survival guide… and that in the telling and the hearing, we will all find strength. For those of us who wrote, the experience was incredibly blessed, allowing us to pour out our love for this amazing person of ours.
So when memories arrive, we can welcome them and all the emotions that tag along. Greet them with tears or smiles. Maybe even a good laugh. Gently hold these pieces of your life as you look back and remember. And in those memories, see all the love that has carried you and yours through past generations. In remembering the former years, we gain hope for the future—a hope that knows without doubt that even in the worst of times, love will not leave us. The little bird may fly off but will soon return to be shared with others. This sharing can be at a support group table with other parents who need our touch, our understanding, to hear of our hope. In this, we help keep many warm, and this is not the end of our story.
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