May 25th.
The day Mom died. Every year.
It feels different, every year.
I never really know how to plan or what to expect.
Some years we eat strawberries. or Twizzlers. Sometimes I buy purple flowers and sit them firmly on the table, middle of life and quiet and fragrant. Sometimes I tell the kids stories I've already told them, things I remember. Sometimes I don't tell the kids at all, but sit in the sunshine.
Sometimes it's a beautiful, grateful day with a few pinches.
Sometimes it's one at sea, rocking, grasping at a place to plant my feet.
The last many years, I try to give grace. Find grace. Sit in grace. Allow grace. Invite it.
Acts 11:23 says that when Barnabas came and saw the grace of God, he was glad, and exhorted them all to remain faithful to the Lord with steadfast purpose.
And in my search for grace in grieving, He never lets me miss two things.
Mom's best friend, Mary. Her birthday is May 25th, and every single birthday May 25th, she texts or messages me. Short messages. She loved my mother. My mother loved us. She was a joy of a friend. My mother would be proud. This year was Mary's first birthday without her beloved husband, but she reminded us anyway what a gift in her life our mom was.
It always reminds me of the richness.
Two, that woman we all call Aunt Sharon, though we don't look like her and she never met my mom.
The first many times we met her in Haiti, she loved on our girls as one who also grew up in Haiti. As she invited us into her family and church and we got to know her better and more frequently, she became a symbol of unmerited grace and family in our lives. Family has to be your family. They're supposed to show up. They're supposed to sacrifice. They're supposed to care about you. They're supposed to want to spend time with your kids. But Sharon isn't family. And as she has spent 15 years now doing those things anyway..and I'll never forget the year, the struggle-y May 25th when I realized Aunt Sharon's birthday was the same day.
How in the world--all those years ago when Mom was praying that the Lord would fill the gaps she was leaving with His grace--how was there Sharon, of all the days, celebrating her life on the day we mourn?
The "coincidence" catches me EVERY year. It's HIM.
It's so Him to remind us in our darkest, most painful places of His grace and light and good gifts.
His heart breaks with us. He feels the loss with us. And He is still in the middle, bringing grace.
This week my girls are caring for Betsy's home and dogs and mail while her widower and children travel, trying to find footing, trying to stop the weary, violent spinning of loss. Every time Lily heads out the door to take care of "the girls" as Betsy always called her beloved pups, my heart pangs. I MISS her, our friend. I ache for her dear ones. My girls say it's happy to be near Betsy by being in her space...but I don't think I could step in the house yet, empty of Betsy...a woman who filled every space so fully and with such warmth. She was the easiest woman to cherish. Lord filled Betsy and flowed her out as fully and faithfully as the tides.
My dad used to come when Matt travelled. Sometimes he came all the way to Haiti, sometimes he'd come and help with the girls. He would knock everything off my house fix-it list, often groaning over the "Stacey fixes" I had done until he came again, and he always found at least six more things to fix. He knew we were ok when Matt was gone, but he felt better when he was a part of us being ok, and I did too. I cherish those times that felt unnecessary then and so much like LOVE now.
Matt left a few days ago for teaching and conference, and I immediately jumped into fix-its. Despite having more on my plate without his help, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do house projects. When he was in Africa in October I painted our entire bedroom and hung shelves and pictures, and yesterday I spent an hour at Lowe's with kids in tow, asking employees things I used to ask Dad.
I wasn't even thinking about him, going over paint chips with Emma picking out pinks. The color I needed to match the color the kitchen trim came in was a creamy, yellowish white. I matched it. Mayonnaise.
There was no chance on earth I was sanding, caulking and repainting the scuffed, peeling baseboards with mayonnaise. Don't care if it matched or not.
I scanned all the chips and pulled out Swiss Coffee. Swiss Coffee is a white for a Stacey kitchen.
And I swear, standing there at Lowe's--subconsciously doing without dad what I always did WITH dad when Matt traveled--I had the most acute and sudden awareness of him.
My engineer father would NEVER have allowed for such foolish picking of paint.
And as I headed out into the sunshine with Swiss Coffee, I could hear him sigh and see him shake his head and run his hand through thick salt and pepper hair, the hair mom had always said she was waiting for, and I threw my head back and laughed out loud.
My dad loved me. And shook his head at me. And taught me so much. And didn't know what to do with me. And showed up for me. And was a really good father.
And grief, yesterday, instead of hitting unexpectedly all I have lost hit out of absolutely nowhere everything I have had.
A praying gift of a mom I didn't see or appreciate or love well at all the last three years of her life. Who gave me grace as she was dying, anyway.
An unmerited grace of a woman the kids and I all text first when we celebrate and when we panic and when we mourn.
An enduring gift of a father who was wise and careful and generous and set on the narrow road.
And a mayonnaise-coffee combo of a kitchen for Matt to come back to.
I have seen the grace of God and am glad, and I exhort you to remain faithful to the Lord with steadfast purpose.
Grief and broken and loss is just but another moment more.
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