Roman Holiday
* On August 2, 2013, I received the phone call that led to the most devastating 23 days of my life. It was the start of my moms hospital stay that eventually took her home to heaven. Every August, I relive the heartbreak, not by choice but because the love for my mom is stronger than ever. I recently learned about the episodic memory formation that causes people to relive such moments, for better or worse, in their life. In learning about it, my counselor encouraged me to celebrate my healing process. Well, a couple of nights ago, I completed a journal my dear friend Rachel had given me when I adventured to Rome to have mom's ashes blessed at the Vatican. In reading the entries from that trip, I found one that I thought I would share, because it shows how God works in His way to heal and teach people. While this is only my journey in faith, I am thankful for it and hope it can encourage even just one person to trust in Him.
October 4, 2014
I didn't write yesterday. I couldn't write. Bringing mom to the Vatican was a long day. To have her ashes blessed along side so many other people was so hard. But I felt her there, and ultimately I felt lighter. Alternatively, mom was not lighter. My shoulders had grooves where the bag carrying her ashes dug into me, such a physical representation of the burden her disease had placed on me over the years. But I didn't feel those grooves until I saw them in the mirror last night.
I wandered all over Rome with her. I explored every inch of the Vatican with her. In the museum, the chapel, in St.Peter's. As I knelt in the prayer chapel, I finally wept. Mom was gone. She IS gone. I'll never be able to hear her voice again. As I cried, all I asked is that I continue to feel her presence. My expectation on feeling her near are so high. I miss family vacations. I miss watching her snuggle Ainsley. I will keep those memories forever, but I realized, I had stopped taking pictures and that was going to make it hard to keep her near.
I had stopped taking pictures when things got bad. I couldn't look at the disease. I was angry knowing she was being controlled by it. I believed she had lost her control the day she had forgotten us at the airport, and looking at pictures was a reminder at that.
But as I sat there in St.Peters, my tears dropped onto my bible, and I was reminded that she is safe now. At that moment, I wept in surrender. Letting myself accept that there was nothing I could have controlled and still isn't. There was no control left. As I walked back to my Rome apartment that day, I don't know if I can explain what I saw.
I saw love. Everywhere. Without judgement or desire. In couples sharing a silent meal together and a parent with child reading a book near the fountain. In two friends strolling hand in hand laughing and in the street performer joyfully gifting people with their talents. Love existed everywhere in Rome, but He was showing me that it belongs in all and for all of us. I decided I wanted to actually to finally accept that love and give it as He does. Not control love, but share it. God was showing me that He gives us love even when it feels like we have lost it.
I ate a lot of pizza that night. I walked many miles that day. I finally grieved and accepted my moms addiction. And God showed me a new meaning of what He created love to look like.
October 4, 2014
I didn't write yesterday. I couldn't write. Bringing mom to the Vatican was a long day. To have her ashes blessed along side so many other people was so hard. But I felt her there, and ultimately I felt lighter. Alternatively, mom was not lighter. My shoulders had grooves where the bag carrying her ashes dug into me, such a physical representation of the burden her disease had placed on me over the years. But I didn't feel those grooves until I saw them in the mirror last night.
I wandered all over Rome with her. I explored every inch of the Vatican with her. In the museum, the chapel, in St.Peter's. As I knelt in the prayer chapel, I finally wept. Mom was gone. She IS gone. I'll never be able to hear her voice again. As I cried, all I asked is that I continue to feel her presence. My expectation on feeling her near are so high. I miss family vacations. I miss watching her snuggle Ainsley. I will keep those memories forever, but I realized, I had stopped taking pictures and that was going to make it hard to keep her near.
I had stopped taking pictures when things got bad. I couldn't look at the disease. I was angry knowing she was being controlled by it. I believed she had lost her control the day she had forgotten us at the airport, and looking at pictures was a reminder at that.
But as I sat there in St.Peters, my tears dropped onto my bible, and I was reminded that she is safe now. At that moment, I wept in surrender. Letting myself accept that there was nothing I could have controlled and still isn't. There was no control left. As I walked back to my Rome apartment that day, I don't know if I can explain what I saw.
I saw love. Everywhere. Without judgement or desire. In couples sharing a silent meal together and a parent with child reading a book near the fountain. In two friends strolling hand in hand laughing and in the street performer joyfully gifting people with their talents. Love existed everywhere in Rome, but He was showing me that it belongs in all and for all of us. I decided I wanted to actually to finally accept that love and give it as He does. Not control love, but share it. God was showing me that He gives us love even when it feels like we have lost it.
I ate a lot of pizza that night. I walked many miles that day. I finally grieved and accepted my moms addiction. And God showed me a new meaning of what He created love to look like.
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