Silent Night

On the day my mother died I wish I had been told to make a list of everything I remembered her saying, her advice and mannerisms. I still catch myself wanting to call her, picking up my cell phone to dial a number that doesn’t exist. And then tears begin to pull up from my cheeks and the corners of my mouth weaken as I tilt my head back to defy the tears the pleasure of falling.

I’d like to think that she misses me as much as I miss her—but my understanding of theology won’t allow that. She’s in heaven mingling with the saints (even though, like me, she would most likely prefer a heaven of solitude rather than the crowded clouds of witnesses I imagine it to be). But as much as one might think, I don’t actually wonder about heaven, or her in heaven, all that often.

I miss my mom the most when I’m in the kitchen. Had I had those extra years I assure myself that her hamburger vegetable soup would not have turned into hamburgtable mush when I boiled it, roaring, uncovered (instead of softly simmering it, covered) for two hours. Even the resulting free flow of tears couldn’t make it soup again.

Had I known how quickly she’d be taken, I would have made sure to have had cooking lessons with her, filling a recipe box with all the family favorites: the ones marked with four or five stars and handwritten notes of ‘very good!’ or ‘Dad likes’. And while there’s usually someone, a sister or sister-in-law, a friend or website, that can answer my culinary questions, it’s never the same as hearing it directly from the woman who has had your nourishment in mind from the very beginning.

Today I would ask her questions about stain removers and careers and what it was like to fall in love. Later I might ask about babies and unruly teenagers and how life changed when the kids were grown. And when her hair was white and her hands were like Grandma’s, we would talk about what it was like after she was gone.

She and I used to talk a lot together. There was one particular conversation that took place on a sunny afternoon in May that I have come to remember more clearly as it’s been told time and again to old friends and family. And like most of my verbal musings, I don’t recall the inward journey that got me there, nor do I remember the words that preceded my statement, or even the following wanderings of my wonderings. But that afternoon I told my mother quite plainly that I could never and would never forgive someone that drove drunk and killed someone I loved. She said I shouldn’t expect Christ’s forgiveness then, either.

Guess you can say that’s why I wrote on my police statement that I forgave Mr. Casey—the man responsible for my mother’s death. He was leaving a family Christmas party intoxicated. My parents and I were bringing my sister home from the airport for the holidays. In a fraction of a second, the time it took for his truck to crush our car, life, as I knew it, was forever changed.

In that dark hour, no words came. And if they had, it would be as searching the oceans for the exact teardrop that would convey it all: love, goodbye, anger. But she was silent. And so was I.

How often I’ve travelled back in my mind to the accident scene. What should I have said? Why didn’t I say something, anything? I don’t know.

Instead, I keep talking. Since she never responds (go figure), I have the floor to myself. I ask her how she thinks I’m doing. I wonder aloud about the career and family choices she made. I commend her for her breakfast scones recipe. I even tell her that though it might be cold outside, I am not . . . and I leave my jacket unbuttoned and my hat at home.

Then I tell her that the journey of forgiveness is a long one. It’s been nine pain-filled years without her, and I still wonder if I’ll ever agree with those three small written words, ‘I forgive you’.

And I tell her how much I love her and miss her. Oh, how I miss her.