The Journals | The Life, the Passion, the Prayers of My Mother

Packing, Moving, and Grieving

What a title, right? Encouraging and uplifting? Maybe not, but sometimes you tell your story, and it begins with pain and grief. This story is one of those.

When my mom passed away in 2008, we began preparing her home to place on the market when the economy improved. With a heavy heart, packing and moving her things was one of the most difficult tasks I ever had to do.

On a cold day in February, two weeks after her death, I entered her home for the first time without her. No smell of a cake baking in the oven. Her arms were not reaching out to give a welcoming hug.

Countless memories flooded my mind as I walked from room to room, deciding what to do with her earthly possessions. Who would appreciate something handmade by my mom? Or who could benefit from items such as her often used KitchenAid mixer? Or who would want a television that was technologically outdated but worked just fine to watch reruns of Andy Griffith?

Throughout my mother’s house, small porcelain figurines of dogs, birds, cats, and other animals sat on shelves or perched on windowsills. She referred to these small figurines as “whatnots.” I gently picked up a small cat with a broken ear that was glued back in place. I flashed back to the early 1960s and a shopping trip to F. W. Woolworth’s Five and Dime store. My mother stood in the “whatnot” aisle and chose this little ceramic cat I now held tenderly in my hand. Most likely it cost 5 cents. Through the years as her collection of whatnots grew, she cared for each one as if they were a highly prized treasure.

I recalled the day I dropped the cat figurine on the wooden floor, chipping its ear. As she glued the chip back in place, she assured me that the chip gave the cat much-needed character to set it apart from the others. I smiled, thinking back to the times when my mom and a jar of glue could fix almost any crisis in my life.

A Closet Full of Memories

Opening the door to her bedroom closet, I took a deep breath. There was no mistaking the lingering scent of Imari, my mother’s favorite Avon perfume. Her dresses, skirts, blouses, and jackets, most of them handmade, hung neatly organized. Stacked on the top shelf were two shoe boxes. I lifted the lid of one to find her special occasion patent leather shoes she wore for Sunday church services and weddings. As I tucked the shoes back in the box, something else at the back of the shelf caught my attention. I grabbed a chair and retrieved an old, worn-out hat box covered in pink satin and stained, discolored lace. Its appearance gave an indication of many years of use.

I untied the tattered ribbon that held the lid in place. Inside the box, I found old letters, greeting cards, handmade artwork, and folded pieces of paper with handwritten notes. I discovered my mother’s keepsake box. Without warning, tears flowed like a river from my grieving heart.

Stepping down from the chair, I closed the closet door. The packing and removal of my mother’s clothes and contents of her closet would have to wait.

I opened a drawer of the dresser where she kept her folded gowns of soft cotton and lace. Lifting the gowns, I found her hand-written journals. From the bedside table, I found the journal where she wrote her most recent, and last, entry.

With the journals and the keepsake box tucked securely under my arm, I locked the door behind me, and walked out into the bitter cold.

Throughout life, she taught me about living but also taught me about facing life without the ones we love. She did her best to prepare me for the time when she would leave me, but I don’t think we can ever be ready.

As I backed out of the driveway, I took one last look at the empty porch and the closed front door. In times past, she would have been standing there, waving goodbye. I could see her in my rearview mirror until I was out of her sight.

I glanced at the journals and the keepsake box on the seat beside me. What stories would these journals tell? What would I find in the old letters and notes of the keepsake box?

Late Night Conversations

In the weeks before her death, it became a nightly routine to curl up beside her in the bed as we waited for the pain medication to take effect. Our conversations were often about her childhood memories; some I had heard, and others were new to me.

One night, she told a story of her cousin’s coat unintentionally left at the bus stop. It was a sweet memory of the friendship between cousins. She told the story with such clarity. I could see the coat lying on the ground as the school bus sped away on a cold wintry morning years ago.

I enjoyed the trips down memory lane with her as my guide, but some of those late-night conversations were painful to hear. However, knowing it was important to her, I listened as she requested things she wanted me to do when she passed away.

She Asked, I Listened

The first request was about flowers. Not the beautiful flowers she nurtured and tended in the garden, but funeral flowers. She had a passion for missions and asked that instead of sending flowers to her funeral, send the money to missionaries around the world.

After our talk about flowers, she took me from tears to laughter as she requested I remove her worn and tattered undergarments that were in her bedroom chest. She wanted them discarded before anyone else could see them. I told her I would give the most pitiful looking garments to the church’s annual yard sale in a box with her name on it. Even in her weak condition, she gave me a good whack on the arm before we both gave into laughter. That’s the way we were with one another.

And Then…We Talked About Her Journals

Among the countless things my mom enjoyed, such as sewing, crafting, and gardening, she was also an avid writer and journaled most of her life. She held nothing back as she penned about daily life; she was real, no pretense. Tear-stained pages told the story if her heart was hurting as she wrote.

She often wrote her prayers, and each page is a testimony to her faith and trust in God. Her prayers always began with the words, “God, You are so good.”

It was only after her death that I understood why it was important to keep my promise to preserve the privacy of her journals.

Journals: More Than Just Words on Paper

I am thankful that my mother took the time to journal her life, the passions, and heartfelt prayers. Because of what she wrote, I have insight of days and moments that otherwise would have been lost. In her willingness to express herself through her journals, she continues to inspire and motivate me. There are days when I read her prayers, I feel as if her hand once again gently brushes across my brow as it did when I was a little girl.

My mother’s journals were a gift of love for future generations.