The Gift
To say I’m crying wouldn’t even scratch the surface. It’s been so long since tears have poured like this.
My brother, G was 13 when my mom died. He has spent the years since begging for us to tell the stories again and again, trying to find memories of her locked in his mind, envious of my sister and me for the long memories we have of her, including the years before cancer. He doesn’t have those, he was only two when her world and ours changed.
I decided this summer that I wanted to do something, create something to give him parts of her that I have only from the luxury of being 8 years older. I decided I would make a scrapbook and include photos of mainly him and of him and Mom. I would write down some of the favorite stories for him to read anytime he wanted to. I would give him this book, this collection of memories to call his own. For him to own and hold and pour over and read and cry upon, and grieve. To finally grieve.
I had to ask for help. I asked my sister and my dad for any photos that they might have that would be useful to this purpose. Neither of them is nearly as sentimental as my brother or I am, but they were more helpful than I had anticipated and both sent me boxes of photos about a month ago.
Just this past week I worked up the courage to open them. I know this is for G, but I knew it meant digging through photos of when I was little, and when she was healthy and it’s all I can do to get through it sometimes. To cope with seeing her. It’s been 12 years, but sometimes it only feels like a day ago that I heard her laughing.
In my sister’s box were 20 photos or so and a stack of envelopes. There must be 100 letters in this box that my mom wrote to her parents over the course of 10 years or so. I’m sure it’s not all of them, but it covers an enormous span of time. I have been pouring over them with the objective to find snippets about G that I can copy and include in his book.
As I sat her tonight reading letter after letter in no particular order at all, many not even dated, I realized that these pages are absolutely the greatest gift I will ever hold in my hands. They tell me of things I never knew and things I know all too well. They tell her side of the story. They tell of things she found important and things she found joy in. They tell of her faith and her struggles with it at times. They tell of us kids and how she felt as a mom. These letters have become the scrapbook more so than the photos. These are her words, and G will treasure them as much as I do.
I just sat and wrote a letter to my grandmother. God bless her, she has buried two of her three children. I told her what an incredible gift these letters are. I thanked her for saving them for all of these years and for giving them to us that we might know Mom this way.
And with the tears still rolling, as I was writing to G’ma, I realized that if my mom were alive, she would have a stack of letters from me about my life, and my child and my loves and my faith. And someday she’d give them to my kids.
I miss her so much tonight. Having her writing in my hands brings her so close I can almost hear her voice. I can almost see her expression. I know she’s in Heaven, and while I don’t know that she’s spending her time watching all of us down here, I know that God had a hand in these letters all along. God made her talk through writing for a reason. God gave her such a warm, tender, caring mom for her to turn to, and He moved them far enough apart to have record of their conversations on paper. He knew I would need them someday.
It’s all I can do not to call G and fly him up here from Atlanta this very minute and sit on the floor and read through every single one of these letters. Just him, and me, and Mom.
My brother, G was 13 when my mom died. He has spent the years since begging for us to tell the stories again and again, trying to find memories of her locked in his mind, envious of my sister and me for the long memories we have of her, including the years before cancer. He doesn’t have those, he was only two when her world and ours changed.
I decided this summer that I wanted to do something, create something to give him parts of her that I have only from the luxury of being 8 years older. I decided I would make a scrapbook and include photos of mainly him and of him and Mom. I would write down some of the favorite stories for him to read anytime he wanted to. I would give him this book, this collection of memories to call his own. For him to own and hold and pour over and read and cry upon, and grieve. To finally grieve.
I had to ask for help. I asked my sister and my dad for any photos that they might have that would be useful to this purpose. Neither of them is nearly as sentimental as my brother or I am, but they were more helpful than I had anticipated and both sent me boxes of photos about a month ago.
Just this past week I worked up the courage to open them. I know this is for G, but I knew it meant digging through photos of when I was little, and when she was healthy and it’s all I can do to get through it sometimes. To cope with seeing her. It’s been 12 years, but sometimes it only feels like a day ago that I heard her laughing.
In my sister’s box were 20 photos or so and a stack of envelopes. There must be 100 letters in this box that my mom wrote to her parents over the course of 10 years or so. I’m sure it’s not all of them, but it covers an enormous span of time. I have been pouring over them with the objective to find snippets about G that I can copy and include in his book.
As I sat her tonight reading letter after letter in no particular order at all, many not even dated, I realized that these pages are absolutely the greatest gift I will ever hold in my hands. They tell me of things I never knew and things I know all too well. They tell her side of the story. They tell of things she found important and things she found joy in. They tell of her faith and her struggles with it at times. They tell of us kids and how she felt as a mom. These letters have become the scrapbook more so than the photos. These are her words, and G will treasure them as much as I do.
I just sat and wrote a letter to my grandmother. God bless her, she has buried two of her three children. I told her what an incredible gift these letters are. I thanked her for saving them for all of these years and for giving them to us that we might know Mom this way.
And with the tears still rolling, as I was writing to G’ma, I realized that if my mom were alive, she would have a stack of letters from me about my life, and my child and my loves and my faith. And someday she’d give them to my kids.
I miss her so much tonight. Having her writing in my hands brings her so close I can almost hear her voice. I can almost see her expression. I know she’s in Heaven, and while I don’t know that she’s spending her time watching all of us down here, I know that God had a hand in these letters all along. God made her talk through writing for a reason. God gave her such a warm, tender, caring mom for her to turn to, and He moved them far enough apart to have record of their conversations on paper. He knew I would need them someday.
It’s all I can do not to call G and fly him up here from Atlanta this very minute and sit on the floor and read through every single one of these letters. Just him, and me, and Mom.
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