Yesterday I wrote to the WordPress daily prompt on fate/destiny.
Today’s prompt:
What experiences in life helped you grow the most?
Loaded question.
My title today comes from a line I wrote in yesterday’s post. Will this be my pattern every day I take on the Slice of Life Story Challenge? Don’t know. We shall see.
As to this prompt about experiences…
Doesn’t most growth come from a place of pain?
*******
Dear Mom:
Someday I will do a better job of writing about this than what I am about to do now, but here goes.
I understand you have died. About a year ago.
I’ve not been able to find your obituary anywhere, nor your grave. Your plate on the headstone beside Daddy’s remains blank. My guess is that things were kept private, simple, as inexpensive as possible.
After twenty-three years without any contact, I have a few questions, but not much to say.
I have to say it, even though you’ll never know.
I got over my anger long ago. I had to, or it would have consumed me. I had young children of my own to care for; they were my priority. I now have two beautiful granddaughters. Your great-granddaughters, who will ask for the story, someday.
I got over my fear of your destructive behavior, which marked Daddy’s last years, and which shattered our family. I know it continued because, every so often in the ensuing decades, debt collectors would call my house looking for you. I would tell them the truth: I had no contact with you.
The pattern would not be broken, but people would. There could be no going back. Only forward.
I am past the point of blaming. We make our own choices. We paint our narratives in the colors of our liking, to our own purposes. To keep living with ourselves, I suppose, instead of changing. I chose the filter of Fact. Grannie once told me that she didn’t believe in divorce but she had to do it to survive your violent father. I didn’t believe in cutting ties with my own mother, either, but I had to do it, to survive. In the better part of you – for it was surely still there, somewhere – you would have understood this.
But I am not writing to justify or to judge. It’s not my place. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.
What I want to say is thank you.
Thank you for every sacrifice you made throughout my childhood. You did so much with so little.
Thank you for the sewing machine running late in the night, making our beautiful clothes.
Thank you for playing gospel records that I listened to when I was supposed to be asleep, and for the way you could paint and repair most anything.
Thank you for your humor and your unbridled cackling, contagious laughter; no one else laughed like you.
Thank you for being a safe haven for kids of troubled families in the neighborhood as well as for our neighbor who suffered a nervous breakdown. I see her frantic blue eyes, even now. Thank you for inviting the meanest bully of all to my birthday party without telling me, because you saw a child who was hurting inside, who needed to be part of something happy.
Thank you for advocating (surely, as I can’t imagine it was Daddy’s idea), to get my pet parakeet, and later for the puppies (which he forbade, to no avail; you won out).
Thank you trying to save my sick kitten, Edelweiss, which died in your hands while you tried to feed her with an eyedropper.
Thank you for your incredible creativity, the way you could whip up a costume like magic, and for coming so proudly to my school plays, your sisters in tow.
Thank you for pulling my wedding together, for mending the gown and veil from the discount racks so they’d be presentable, for weeping with sheer relief when Grandma offered to pay for the cake, and for making my all my bridesmaid dresses and my sky-blue going-away outfit. I recall you saying you were married in a blue dress; you didn’t have a wedding gown. And thank you for removing the iridescent white beads you wore to my wedding, pulling them off your neck to put around mine at the last minute, to set off that sky-blue dress as I was leaving.
I bet you thought I’d forgotten, all these long years since.
I have not. I remember it all.
As I said, one day I’ll write about it better than I can right now.
Just one more thing, as I sit by the window on this bright day, with winter fading and spring stirring in a wild dance of golden light and flickering shadows across my kitchen walls and floors: Thank you for taking me to church when I was a child. When I lost you to the darker part of yourself, I still had the church. The faith. The Lord. This has been my life. This has been the life of my family.
You might have forgotten many things. I might be one of them. I will never know.
But it’s okay. I choose to remember the good bits of you reflected in every shard I salvage from this story strewn with loss, set in motion long before I was ever in the world.
Some will say how sad, that no one ever never reached across the abyss to make amends.
I do not say this. I say it is over. The abyss is closed. Filled in. Time takes us all. The hurt is gone, although the healing will never be complete in this life.
I carry the shards.
Peace to you at long last, Mom.
P.S. I dreamed of you awhile back. Small and white-haired, but you looked well. You held your arms out to me in welcome.
“My baby has come home,” you said.
And I hugged you.
Because it was finally safe to love you again.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge.
This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers,
as a means of continually honing the craft.
To those of you out there dealing with loss, death or otherwise:
Writing brings clarity.
Writing in community builds courage.
Write your story and trust.
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lit bits and pieces 
Oh Fran. I read the early lines about looking for the obituary a few times, not understanding right away. What a piece of writing. So many stories, so many reflections. I could go on about the craft of this– it should be used in writing workshops as an exemplar for memoir. More than that, it makes me admire you more than ever. In some ways, we see and know so little about the slicers, but we also can see and learn so much. If you were here in an in-person writing group, all arms would be around you, and I hope that you have that where you are. I think you do.
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Thank you for your encouraging and uplifting words, Melanie. I know people don’t expect for someone to not know when a parent passes – or that some people pass without having obituaries. It’s testimony to the sad state of affairs…lots more to the story, but: Even though my mother and I were estranged for so many years, I wanted to honor the good in her. It felt right. It is a release for me. Know that I so appreciate you.
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OH MY GOODNESS, This is one of the most powerful pieces I have ever read sharing the very real and very painful actions and decisions of a family broken in many ways, but with acknowledgement of the good that existed amid the pain. Your decision to end with a long list of small but important good memories may be an indication of how you turned a very painful situation into an avenue for ongoing growth and lingering love.
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Thank you for your gracious response, Anita – when it all fell apart, long ago, all I could think of was shielding my young sons from the train wreck. I had no choice but to grow, to find strength I didn’t know I had. Now, not knowing many things (but definitely a few) that transpired in my mother’s life in over two decades, I wanted to honor the good in her. It was there, despite all, and I am grateful. It is a release.
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Fran, first I extend hugs of joy and sisterhood to you from the south Z town to the north Z town. I agree with Anita – this is powerful, and what I sense so fully is the spirit of wanting to hold things together (sewing) and mend and stitch, and also the spirit of release (the beads, the spirit of anger, her life itself). I agree with you that we do grow most from the places of pain. I think the most impactful line is the truth in the line that the pattern would not be broken but people would. There is such pain in life this side of heaven, and yet such beauty too. Sometimes I see places of such beauty I wonder if I’ve died and gone to heaven, and other times moments of such evil I wonder if I’ve died and gone to hell. One thing is for sure: your full healing will come, and I cannot help wondering if that glimpse of your mother reaching her arms out to you is a preview of the day that this will actually happen when she meets you at the gate in the future. I do know that in these days as she finally has been made whole, she knows what an amazing daughter you are. She’s prouder today than she has ever been able to be before.
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Thank you, dear Kim, for your great heart and always-amazing insight. My mother did much good, and showed much love to me, in my younger life. She became increasingly destructive and irrational later, to a point where I, in horror, essentially ran for my own sanity and to shield my children. The relationship died years ago … but she was still my mother and I wanted to honor the good in her, following her passing. Seems it happened about a year ago. She’s free of her demons now, so to speak. And the dream was as vivid as any I’ve ever had. It was just like something she’d say and do – in a well and whole version of herself. I wonder about several things still – but I am at peace. Writing this post was a release.
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Oh Fran. That’s what I initially thought and then saw that Melanie started her comment the same way. This is beautiful. It speaks to who you are as a human, how you chose to let all of this shape you into someone who can choose to see the good. I feel certain that your mom would be proud, although I don’t think you need that affirmation.
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Thank you for this beautiful response, Jessica. I believe you are right: despite the lost years and relationship, my mother, in the better part of herself, was loving to and proud of me. She was goodhearted, despite the catastrophic choices she’d make. I learned of her death about a year after the fact – and there are a few things I’d like to know – but it feels right to honor the good in her. Peace settles in.
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First, I am so sorry for the grief and sorrow that radiates through your writing. Even though you may feel as though you weren’t able to put what you wanted to say into words, it sounds like you’re making peace with those feelings you’re having and it made perfect sense to me. I read every word of this as if I may have been reading from my own diary. While I haven’t lost my mom, it feels as though I’ve lost her in many ways. Your slice touched my heart today because I can relate on so many levels. Sending you a big big hug.
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Thank you so much for your warm thoughts and keen understanding. I do have peace. Writing this post gave me a profound sense of closure – it was right. Strength and peace to you in relation to your mom as well.
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Well, maybe you’ll write it better someday, but on this particular day I can’t imagine it being written any better. This is an amazing letter. It’s clear that your faith has given you a gift of being brave enough to put painful thoughts and feelings into words, but also loving enough to push through the veil of pain to find things to be grateful for. Thank you for writing this. It gives me a lot to think about with my own losses, and whether I’ve truly addressed them they way you have in this letter.
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Thank you for these words, Peter – they mean much. Writing this was a release for me. It felt right. I needed to do it. If it helps others, then I am doubly glad to have written it.
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Oh my lord, Fran – you captured your loss so completely. I have similar loss in relation to my father, who is still alive at the age of 99. Your words: I didn’t believe in cutting ties with my own mother, either, but I had to do it, to survive. In the better part of you – for it was surely still there, somewhere – you would have understood this. particularly hit home. And I loved that you thanked your mother through all the pain because I do that with my dad. I thank him for his love of poetry that he gave me. I can appreciate that even though he was/is destructive. Your ending and the last line: Because it was finally safe to love you again – brought me to tears. Thank you for this post. It was very healing for me – I hope it was for you.
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Writing the post was healing in its way, Joanne – mostly as a sense of closure. The relationship died long ago, but she was still my mother, and she loved me once. I needed to honor that, and all the good she did before all went so wrong. If you have found any healing here, then my heart rejoices, friend.
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Fran, what an emotional piece. With all the bad, you focused on the good. Time moves on. With it comes closure and a peace only God can provide. God bless.
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So true, Bob, about the closure and peace only God can provide. Thank you for this.
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So many emotions you evoke from this piece. You are a forgiving and loving daughter. The strength you cultivated from your pain is a blessing.
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Thank you so much for your kind and gracious words.
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This slice is beautiful and artful. The juxtaposition of past and present when you remind us you’re writing by a sunny window made me pause. The lines “it doesn’t matter anyway” also struck me as poignant and sad. Thank you for sharing this with us.
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Thank you so much for your thougtful words, Leah.
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First, allow me to offer you a hug from across the miles. This writing was so emotionally raw & you really bared your soul to us. Your unwavering faith is something I’ve admired about you for many years.
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Dear Anna Maria – I feel you are not so far away! Thank you for these precious words and the hug. You are very dear. It was important to me to try to honor my mother the best way I could, even though the relationship was lost long ago. She’s free now. I will treasure what was good.
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Dear Anna Maria – I feel you are not so far away! Thank you for these precious words and the hug. You are very dear. It was important to me to try to honor my mother the best way I could, even though the relationship was lost long ago. She’s free now. I will treasure what was good.
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This is beautiful! It speaks to me so much. My mother sounds similar to yours. You may have inspired me to write more about my own mom. I actually wrote a little about her today so it’s interesting that yours was the first slice I saw after I published.
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It’s a fascinating thing, in a writing community, how so many of us can get the same sort of idea at one time. I am delighted to think you will write more about your mom. It took me a long, long time to write about mine. I find it freeing – and I’m amazed by the number of people who have reached out about their relationships with their mothers. I think maybe we are comforting one another, without even realizing. The magic of writing!!
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Wow, Fran. My heart is in my throat. Sending a virtual hug to you. Stunning writing evoking so much emotion and meaty reflection. How do you do it? “I choose to remember the good bits of you reflected in every shard I salvage from this story strewn with loss, set in motion long before I was ever in the world.” So very powerful, these words.
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I so appreciate your words here, Cindy. And the hug. 🙂 This post about my mother… I sat looking at the “publish” button, wondering if I really wanted to let it go. I am so glad I did. I think, all things considered, it was the proper goodbye we never had, and the eulogy for the funeral that I wouldn’t have been informed of, and which may not have even taken place. There are deep and unpretty layers…but this felt right, I am glad I did it, and your encouraging words are very precious to me. Thank you. friend.
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Fran, “most growth come from a place of pain” is a truth that is haunting. I can feel your pain while reading your letter to your Mom but I also feel your understanding. May the Lord lift you for sharing this time of estrangement with us. I note that you allowed us into your past. It opened some very sad memories of mine. I have learned from you, Fran, that faith and hope can help us through the bumpy roads we travel. Thank you for your support during this trying time for my family.
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Dear Carol: I appreciate these words so much. I hesitated to write about my mother. It seemed pointless at first, as we had not contact for so long, and now she is gone. I am not sure I can explain why I felt I needed to do it. I wasn’t notified of her passing by anyone in the family; I haven’t heard from any of them in years. There wasn’t an obituary and the cemetery says she’s not buried there with my father. I have lingering questions but I think, in my heart, that this post was my eulogy for her. I spoke at my father’s funeral. My mother should have had one. At any rate, it is my way of setting her free as well as myself. I know she had faith, damaged as she was. I have been amazed to hear from others that the post is helpful. I am glad I pressed on to write it. Now – you and yours remain in my thoughts every day. I pray you strength and courage, And rest – so important.
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Thank you Fran, for opening up your heart to us about your mother and sharing the grief that caused over the years. I can identify from the perspective of a different fractured relationship with my own mother. It’s one of the reasons why I’m in Australia and not England. I had to run away. Yours too is so sad, but I love all the tender moments and touches of her love you have shared with us. The lives of many are so difficult. This is such a powerful and moving piece of writing.
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Celia, thank YOU for your kind and courageous words…I have hesitated to write anything about my mother, having been estranged for so long. Now that she’s gone, and especially since our relationship was never repaired, I feared sounding hypocritical. Yet – she was my mother and I needed to acknowledge the good, for it wasn’t all bad. There was a great deal of pain at the cutoff. And so I wrote, I guess, to finally set her free and, likewise, myself. I have been amazed by the number of people who have written to say how they are experiencing the same thing with their mothers or fathers. I can hardly believe how much you and I have in common, with the late return to college/university and then this brokenness with our mothers. I am floored. But deeply grateful I wrote the post, because I believe it is a bit of comfort and strength people who need it. I didn’t expect this. Again – thank you, my lovely friend, for the depth of your insight, and for being willing to share also.
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Fran,
I read your post the day you wrote it, and I’ve been carrying it with me, wondering how I might respond. I suppose it was difficult because I felt so much, so deeply: grief, pain, relief, peace, safety, all tumbling over and around one another.
So I don’t have much in the way of words to offer, only a prayer from the Jewish tradition. On Yom Kippur, there’s a special memorial service called Yizkor, and it allows us to make time for both grief and peace-making. Among the prayers is one for children who have had difficult relationships with their parents. I send it to you now:
Dear God,
You know my heart.
Indeed, You know me better than I know myself, so I turn to You before I rise for Kaddish [the mourner’s prayer].
My emotions swirl as I say this prayer. The parent I remember was not kind to me. His/her death left me with a legacy of unhealed wounds, of anger and of dismay that a parent could hurt a child as I was hurt.
I do not want to pretend to love, or to feel grief that I do not feel, but I do want to do what is right as a Jew and as a child.
Help me, O God, to subdue my bitter emotions that do me no good, and to find that place in myself where happier memories may lie hidden, and where grief for all that could have been, all that should have been, may be calmed by forgiveness, or at least soothed by the passage of time.
I pray that You, who raise up slaves to freedom, will liberate me from the oppression of my hurt and anger, and that You will lead me from this desert to Your holy place.
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Dear Lainie…beloved friend. Ever the kindred spirit. First I need to say that I debated with myself long and hard about posting this letter to my mother, who passed over a year ago. Things being what they are with the long estrangement, I wasn’t notified by family. I can’t find an obituary, I do not know if there was a funeral, nor can I locate a grave. Yet she was my mother and she is gone. She is free of all her suffering in this life. Many years ago when things spiraled downward, horrifically, I felt like I was drowning. I wept and told God: “I give her to you, Lord. I cannot fix her. I cannot help her. She’s in your hands.” This post is a means of honoring her as best I can. It is really a eulogy; I do not know if she had one.
I never expected the depth of response to the letter. People writing about how it helps them. There’s so much brokenness out there. People reaching out to offer love and comfort in spite of, or more likely because of, their own scars. I have been amazed, and no more so than by this profound prayer you have offered. It encapsulates so much, so very much, of the experience: the heart’s cry to the only One who can make holiness and wholeness from the ashes of unholiness and hurt. As in Isaiah 49:15-16: “Can a woman forget her child at the breast, not show pity on the child from her womb? Even if these were to forget, I would not forget you.” He has carried me; He has provided…and comforted, even through today, through you and your words and this prayer, which I will print to keep in the Bible my mother gave me when I was a child. You are a gift, my friend – please know how very grateful I am for you, and how much this means to me. Thank you with all my heart ❤
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