I only knew her four and a half years. She taught me to say shush instead of shut up because “It sounded much nicer.” That’s how most memories of my mom are, just momentary glimpses into the kind of person she was and wanted me to become. She died in July of 1985 from cancer. Four and a half years together means we celebrated five Mothers Days as mother and daughter. I don’t remember any of those celebrations but sometimes we learn more acutely by what we don’t remember in life than by what we do. Here’s what I know to be true…

Those closest to our heart will remember what and how we loved. Achievements, ambitions, failures, big moments, routine days all take a back seat to loving well those who matter most to us. One of my last clear memories of my mom alive was her correcting me and dishing out a “and I mean it” spanking from her sick bed in our suburban home. I don’t recall what I did exactly, but I do remember knowing full well I had gone too far. I have three daughters and my youngest is almost five, so I know the only reason she leaned over and used her precious energy on her ornery little girl was because loving me well meant wanting the best for me in the long run. Having a mom unable to get out of bed was zero excuse for poor behavior; not having my mom for the rest of my life would be no excuse for poor behavior either. She sent that message loud and clear. Sometimes a parent needs to do the hard thing to teach their kids the right thing. I’m guessing it literally did hurt her more than it hurt me. We’ll have a good laugh about it in heaven some day. In truth, it’s made me a better parent. She did the hardest thing by setting aside her needs for mine in that moment, and I can do hard things too. I pray I too can set aside my own needs and comforts for others. I pray my girls remember me as a mom who loved them enough to tell them the truth and expect their best even when it’s tough.

My mom knew she wasn’t going to be around to see my brother and me grow up. I don’t know how we spent our final Mothers Day together because so many of those days were filled with doctors, hospitals, and eventually hospice but I know she loved being a mom and she loved us well until the day she died. I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow missing and missing out on having her here, but I know her love is being passed on through me to my own kids and that’s a beautiful way God allows me to experience her each day.

My Mother’s Day gift to myself (besides that blue purse I’ve been eyeing) is to remember that I had a mom who loved me well and do the same for my own girls. I can’t do everything, I definitely can’t do anything perfect, but I can love them in the hard and easy places of life like only their mom can.

Happy Mother’s Day

I only knew her four and a half years. She taught me to say shush instead of shut up because “It sounded much nicer.” That’s how most memories of my mom are, just momentary glimpses into the kind of person she was and wanted me to become. She died in July of 1985 from cancer. Four and a half years together means we celebrated five Mothers Days as mother and daughter. I don’t remember any of those celebrations but sometimes we learn more acutely by what we don’t remember in life than by what we do. Here’s what I know to be true…

Those closest to our heart will remember what and how we loved. Achievements, ambitions, failures, big moments, routine days all take a back seat to loving well those who matter most to us. One of my last clear memories of my mom alive was her correcting me and dishing out a “and I mean it” spanking from her sick bed in our suburban home. I don’t recall what I did exactly, but I do remember knowing full well I had gone too far. I have three daughters and my youngest is almost five, so I know the only reason she leaned over and used her precious energy on her ornery little girl was because loving me well meant wanting the best for me in the long run. Having a mom unable to get out of bed was zero excuse for poor behavior; not having my mom for the rest of my life would be no excuse for poor behavior either. She sent that message loud and clear. Sometimes a parent needs to do the hard thing to teach their kids the right thing. I’m guessing it literally did hurt her more than it hurt me. We’ll have a good laugh about it in heaven some day. In truth, it’s made me a better parent. She did the hardest thing by setting aside her needs for mine in that moment, and I can do hard things too. I pray I too can set aside my own needs and comforts for others. I pray my girls remember me as a mom who loved them enough to tell them the truth and expect their best even when it’s tough.

My mom knew she wasn’t going to be around to see my brother and me grow up. I don’t know how we spent our final Mothers Day together because so many of those days were filled with doctors, hospitals, and eventually hospice but I know she loved being a mom and she loved us well until the day she died. I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow missing and missing out on having her here, but I know her love is being passed on through me to my own kids and that’s a beautiful way God allows me to experience her each day.

My Mother’s Day gift to myself (besides that blue purse I’ve been eyeing) is to remember that I had a mom who loved me well and do the same for my own girls. I can’t do everything, I definitely can’t do anything perfect, but I can love them in the hard and easy places of life like only their mom can.

Happy Mother’s Day

My kids are going to have memories of me pulling the car over to chase down photo opportunities of random flowers and trees, which I’m hoping doesn’t require too many hours of future counseling. I pray in their own way they realize the value in seeking and seeing beauty even in the most familiar places. The trees along our carpool route beg to be photographed and remembered in all their glory as they burst with blooms. Tulips adorn walkways and mulch beds with their painted heads nodding in the breeze and inviting a sigh of relief to winter’s end. It’s worth the occasional inconvenience or consequence to step out into the daylight and experience firsthand the burst of new life all around. 

This week something less vibrant caught my eye. Surrounded by spring’s unmistakable beauty was this milkweed shell. It sat empty, rattling vacant in the warm afternoon breeze. There’s a lot of metaphors that could be said for this image, but the one that caught my heart was purpose. The emptiness of the milkweed shell does not negate its purpose; in fact, it fulfills it. Had this pod remained full of the downy seed in this season, it would’ve been a beautiful photo, but a waste of potential life. I say this because all too often I try to play it safe and hold onto what needs to be given away. We all have experiences, talents, and gifts unique to us and sometimes they’ve developed under difficult or challenging seasons making them hard to release. They might be buried in painful memories or layers of self-protection. Sometimes our hearts just lack generosity or motivation to let go of something that has been hard earned. We can feel entitled to something we’ve worked for. Like the milkweed, there’s purpose and new life in letting go and trusting that God will carry our gift where He purposes. We can trust that new life will come of it even if we have to wait through a winter to see it. What are you holding onto in this season that needs to be let go?

You only live once. YOLO. People everywhere thought this edgy, throw-caution-to-the-wind approach to life was front page news for a quick, pop culture minute. Finally, a hashtag that truly captures the meaning to all of life! If you’ve lived long enough you know this mantra is as old as Eve biting into a piece of forbidden fruit. Same game, different name. All of life is ours to have if we just live for the moment…live like we’re dying…YOLO…and any other multi-million dollar song lyric that implies consequences don’t matter, only you and what you get out of this life counts in the end.

This past Palm Sunday I was sitting in my car waiting for my almost teenager (how is that possible?!) to get out of basketball practice. I was excited about all 44.3 minutes of solitude I had in the school parking lot and wanted to take a few minutes to soak in some Instagram, emails, and Jesus. I looked up John 12 and read about people celebrating Jesus coming into Jerusalem as the long, awaited for king. I imagine some of palm branch wavers seizing their inner YOLO and hurrying out to jump on the bandwagon, welcoming party. I backed up a few verses to investigate events prior to Jesus’ grand entry and that’s when I noticed his name. Lazarus. You know, the one Jesus loved and let die. The one Jesus raised from the dead. We don’t get a lot of details about Lazarus’ life after death, but in John 12 we see him living. Not just raised to life again sporting stinky burial cloths, but actually full on let’s-plan-a-dinner-party living. So much for YOLO, right?

Here’s the sticky: I don’t want to YOLO. I don’t want YOLO for my kids. Not because I don’t want to be happy or joyful or adventurous, but because there’s something infinitely better than YOLO. Lazarus had it and we have it in Jesus. It’s a second chance at life. I don’t want to live like I’m dying. I want to live like I died and was given a second chance at living. I want to enjoy the moment and be happy, but to live for that?  It just doesn’t hold up. YOLO doesn’t hold true by the hospital bed of a dying friend. There’s no room for YOLO in a suffering world. YOLO has no answers when consequences hurt and pain is real. YOLO is like the pseudo-friend who only comes around when things are going well. It calls when life is fun and sunny. When reality gets harsh, it hides in the shadows of hopelessness. True free-living comes as a gift that says we don’t have to be risky, fun, wild, or religious enough to earn it. Our ultimate second chance living is the hope we have in heaven because Jesus made a way for us to be there. The hope that what we do matters not just for today, but for eternity. We can squeeze everything we can out of this life and declare YOLO until our final breath…or we can live like we’ve been given a second chance at life and live it to the fullest knowing every moment has eternal purpose and every person priceless worth.