The Moments I Think I Hear Her
My Mom was a faithful woman. She saw God in moments at work, in conversations, in internal strife, and in external celebrations. She had doubts, but they never seemed to stop her from pursuing God. I have always struggled with hearing God. And now that she is dead, I struggle to hear her. I want to trust other’s affirmations of her presence from the dreams they had or private conversations with their God. Eager to believe, I still doubt. But there was that moment where I fell asleep exhausted from a long time of weeping and had a dream (a rarity for me). We were driving down I-5 in our 1998 Mystic Teal Toyota Corolla, the faded 4th of July carnation still stuck between the back seats, Aquafina bottles, and Kleenex boxes nestled in sting nettle collected corners. I told her how I was scared, all of my fears melding into a monster and I was losing grip. She told me she was with me and I didn’t need to fear. We were getting on the I-90 bridge, which has been one of the strange areas of fear that developed two years ago, unexplained claustrophobia. In that moment, I felt nothing but peace. It was like she was gifting me the tangible I miss so much, seeing her in a glow I didn’t get to witness a whole lot from the affectations of cancer, hearing the tone and cadence of her voice that affirmed me through the 96 seasons we had together. She was alive in me. If only for a moment, she was alive.
Happy birthday, Mom. Love you. (Dec 26)