Passing the Advent Candle

Two weeks after we said goodbye to our momma, Molly and I sat across the kitchen table, dumbfounded and staring at each other. Somehow, we were in charge of Christmas. We had always helped with Christmas and of course organized our own kids' gifts and special events. Christmas, though, was still her domain - the matriarch of the family running the show.

So there we sat, trying to make a list of food to cook through the grief of fog, and we realized we didn't know how to make stuffing. Not a clue. Neither one of us had ever been in charge of it and we had foolishly always thought we had more time to learn from her. With few options, we did what any one would do in 2013... turned to Facebook, snagged a recipe from a cousin, and shouldered on. For the kids. For our dad. For our husbands. That was our first Christmas without her. Our first Christmas as the moms - the only moms - in charge of producing all the Christmas magic.

My sweet daddy has always been involved at Christmas, just as RB has, but moms really run the show. They are the rememberers of your favorite candy for your stocking and which dessert makes which (totally grown up and capable of cooking it on their own) child happy. They are the late nighters who wrap all your gifts to perfection, even if you have reached the age where you know exactly what you are getting, just so you have something beautiful to unwrap come Christmas morning. They are the cheerleaders who remind you that you don't have to do it all to make your children have a valued, memorable Christmas and constantly remind you of the real reason for the day. They are the arms that hug and spoil and cherish your babies just as much - sometimes if not more - than you do. They are the magic makers who somehow make it all seem full of wonder and perfect, even through the burnt turkeys and accidentally wrapped empty boxes.

It is a weighty challenge, this planning a Christmas as a motherless-daughter. It is constantly walking on a tightrope - your heart bursting with love as you see your own babies enjoy the magic of Christmas while simultaneously breaking because your own mom isn't there to witness and enjoy it. Taking on your own role as planner and baker and magic maker while feeling completely unready and unprepared and unfit to fill her shoes. Establishing your own family traditions while honoring those that were carried out so lovingly and faithfully your entire childhood. Loving this new time in your life as you see your own babies grow and flourish while wishing desperately to turn back the clock, even just a few years to have her for one more precious holiday. No matter how old you are or how long she has been gone, I think Christmas is always a little less without your own mom. There is always something slightly wanting.

So to the other motherless-daughters, those who share in the sisterhood of grieving with me, I hope you feel your moms this Christmas every step of the way. That you see her in the ornaments that she so lovingly helped you to hang while you guide your own precious little ones' hands as you decorate. That you remember the long, often hilarious, sometimes trying, hours in the kitchen with her as you see her handwriting in your well-loved cookbooks. That you feel her in the hugs you give your babies as you put them to bed with the same tenderness and love with which she used to tuck you in on Christmas Eve pasts. That you see the pictures of her young and smiling, new babies resting on her hip, and remember that she too had to start somewhere with the magic. 

Merry Christmas to all our friends and family - may the love of the season surround and comfort you all year long. 

On the eve before preschool

My Facebook feed is littered with back to school photos today of our Virginia friends and families sending their little ones off to school. Brand new lunch boxes and shiny smiles, heartfelt messages from the mommas who are both so excited and also a little heartbroken as every year seems to pass a little more quickly.

We have one more day of having a non-school kid. One more day. And then tomorrow morning, which has come all too soon, we will pack our sweet girl up and, with some tears (probably mine) and a lot of excitement (probably mostly her daddy's) start this next chapter in her childhood.

I know, I know. It is just preschool. RB has remarked several times over the past month if I am this dramatic crazy nostalgic about preschool, I will probably need a strong sedative for when B leaves for Charlottesville. And I get it. This is the logical, prescribed next step. For just a few days a week, not far from our house, she will have an opportunity for new friends and learning. She will explore a safe new environment for a few hours and then return home to us.

Clinging to our last days of summer

But selfishly, I am going to miss our lazy mornings in our jammies, curled up in her bed sleepily reading the books of her choosing. Making breakfast together while we sing to the bad dogs and discuss options for the day. Having her in the backseat of the car to talk about the weather, or traffic, or when we drive by the cow pasture. Seeing her face firsthand as she experiences something new. Witnessing all the joy and wonder that is being three. Just sharing in each moment of her little life. During the day, she is mine and I am hers and it has been like that for three magical years that have been nothing short of a gift.

And, also, with the fear of a mother's heart, I wonder what will happen all day. Whose hand will she grab if she is afraid? Or is not feeling well? What if she calls out for me and I am not there? Will it break her heart or mine more?

The truth is, I have full faith in her teachers and their love for children. And though I know she is brave - probably braver at 3 than I am at 30 - she is still a baby. My baby.

I know it is my job to raise her to leave one day. I want her to grow up strong and confident, excited about all that life can offer, hungry to experience this huge, amazing world around her. I want her to taste, feel, learn, and live to the fullest extent possible. So, with a lot of prayer and a little trepidation, tomorrow we will put on our first day of school outfit. We will kiss the bad dogs goodbye. We will head out, ready for this new adventure.

I am pretty sure, when the first day is over, B will hop into the car bursting to tell me about her new friends and show me what arts and craft she completed that day. If it is anything like Sunday School, she will immediately ask when she can go back and catalog all her new friends for me with big eyes and love in her voice. My heart will sore at her confidence and love of this new adventure. Honestly, it will also probably break a little more too as I realize my baby girl is ready for this next step without me and it is just the very beginning of the steps she will take all on her own.

Much love and prayers to all the mommas and babies (no matter how old) starting a new phase this year. "Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying 'This is the way; walk in it.'" - Isaiah 30:21

A Summer Eucharisteo

I woke up this morning to what has now become my 4 am alarm clock. Baby Katherine announces she is done with sleep with energetic kicks and flips, her insistence that the night is done and it is time to start the day scarily matching the fierce intensity with which her big sister will begin the day in just one short hour.

I laid in bed this morning, of all mornings, and gave thanks to God for the healthy life, the wonderful check up she (and I) received yesterday, the growing baby that is just two days short of 26 weeks. When we found out we were expecting last December, I circled this date excitedly in my calendar. August 18th. Baby #2. I back tracked through the months, writing in trimester start and end dates, filling in each week advancement. August 18th. Another summer baby. A baby that would share my brother's birthday. Or maybe RB's mom's.

For the next few weeks, our lives revolved around August 18th. Travel to that wedding? I will be 36 weeks. Nope. By the time RB is 33, he will be a father of two - even if the youngest is just two weeks old. It was always the first thing we told our friends "We are expecting! August 18th!" and the one concrete piece of information we had about the little one.

The pregnancy didn't last, though, and the baby we were planning for was lost. Our lives rerouted once again, I still couldn't erase all my writing on August 18th. It stayed in my planner, circled and in huge letters, the happy anticipation felt in the marks dreamily penciled in months before.

Just two and a half short months later, there we were. Another pink line staring back at us on stick after stick. A new date shaped in our minds. November 26th. A fall baby. The perfect way to celebrate Thanksgiving and a time of year that has become synonymous these past two years with loss and grief.

Those pink lines weren't a replacement for the baby lost. They weren't an instant bandaid over the worry and sorry and heartache from the past few months. But they represented hope. And a second chance. And grace. Grace undeserved and unearned, but welcomed and cherished. They were the start of our very own rainbow baby.

Shortly after my momma's death, a dear family friend sent me Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts. In the chaos and turmoil of returning back to Georgia, unpacking and resettling our lives in this new normal of my motherless world, I had forgotten about it. Days before the miscarriage, I found it again while looking for Christmas stamps. I read a few pages, entranced by her words and her outlook and her seeking of God in all things. Returning home from the hospital, I threw myself into, finding solace in her writing and her purpose.

"I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives. Why would the world need more anger, more outrage? How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does. The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the hear and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world. When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows. How can this not be the best thing for the world? For us? The clouds open when we mouth thanks.

This thanks for the minute, this is to say the prayer of the most blessed of women about to participate in one of the most transformative events the world has ever known. Mary, which embryonic God Himself filling her womb, exalts in quiet ways 'My soul doth magnify the Lord' (Luke 1:46 KJV).'

So might I; yes, and even here.

Something always comes to fill the empty places. And when I give thanks for the seemingly microscopic, I make a place for God to grow within me. This, this, makes me full, and I 'magnify Him with thanksgiving' (Psalm 69.30 KJV), and God enters the world. What will a life magnify? The world's stress cracks, the grubbiness of a day, all that is wholly wrong and terribly busted? Or God?... I say thanks and I swell with Him, and I swell the world and He stirs me, joy all afoot."

So today, I give thanks. On this August 18th that isn't what we originally planned or hoped or prayed for, I give thanks. For every kick and wave of nausea calming my fears and reminding me that life is beautiful and miraculous. For the smell of the rain and the curls of B's hair as the humidity overtakes her. For the dogs getting further underfoot with each loud clap of thunder and the warmth of our home to wait out the storm. For the baby who gave us so much joy though we never met him. For the ability to draw closer to God and one another with each tear shed. For the grace to even experience today and cherish each minute of this long summer. For a God who is good, all the time. I give thanks and thanks and thanks.

“That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave.”  - Ann Voskamp 

“The practice of giving thanks...eucharisteo...this is the way we practice the presence of God, stay present to His presence, and it is always a practice of the eyes. We don't have to change what we see. Only the way we see.” - Ann Voskamp

Happy 3rd Birthday, B!

My darling girl,

I can't even begin to imagine that you are three. I am sure it was just a few weeks ago that I was screaming over a small digital stick announcing your impending arrival and immediately calling your Aunt Bekah to tell her (Daddy still is not super excited I forgot to call him first). It had to have been just yesterday that you came barreling into the world, loud and unhappy about being woken from your in utero slumber. It was the first and last time we would ever see you complain about having to be awake.

But here we are, your third birthday already put to bed. The cupcakes all eaten, the presents opened, and the dogs thoroughly tormented with tissue paper. And you are three. The small bundle I cuddled and nursed in the late dark hours, the tiny being that held onto my thumb whenever you heard a new story... you are three.

Two was an amazing year for you. So many new adventures and experience. So much growth and learning. I hesitate now to call you a baby; so clearly every day the little girl you are becoming shines through. This year you...

1) Took you first trip to Disney and then began to announce you would be going back every hour on the hour since your return.

2) Started ballet, performing in two recitals (Perform of course being a loose interpretation of what actually occurred on stage. Twirled and clapped in amazement - and not to the beat of the music - may be slightly more accurate).

3) Had more playdates than your parents have had dates in their entire marriage.

4) Ditched the diapers with ease, even if there was one backslide at Papa's where you decided you pottied like the doggies. Outside. In front of several people.

5) Approached new adventures with total fearlessness. Bungee jump at the carnival? Awesome. Ride giant horses? More, please. Kayak with Daddy? Absolutely. And naked except for a life jacket.

6) Mastered the alphabet, counting, and the remote. Honestly, I am not even sure which one was more impressive.

7) Participated in your first wedding and quickly learned the gloriousness of hearing "Don't Stop Believin'" sung by 200 of your new besties.

8) Saw Frozen on Ice twice and still wisely decided Ariel was the best princess of all time.

9) Discovered that you had a say in what you wore each day and flipped your momma's world upside down. Though, I am pretty pleased the number one choice is always "pink with a B for Bonnie!"

The big moments of two were magical and memories I will treasure always. But the day to day of two... that is ingrained in my heart. Each day you came into your own a little more. Your fiery spirit emerging when you are upset. Your tenderheartedness when you are worried about others, especially other little ones. You love of dance and music. Of laughter and fun. Your creative streak and your intuitive nature.

Every day with you is an adventure and having the chance to glimpse the world through your eyes is a joy unlike any I have experienced. It is a gift to be able to see what excites you and captures your attention. Lately, you haven't been able to walk past a plant without literally stopping to smell the flowers. Your eyes big as you take in the vibrant petals, your hands softly petting the leaves to discover their texture. It doesn't matter what else is going on in the world... that we have a schedule to keep, or that your friends are running around you in circles... all your attention is trained on those flowers and the small beauty they bring to a chaotic world. What an inspiration you are to me.

You love big adventures and visiting family, but often I find your hand slipping into mine, your little voice whispering "I go home now, Momma." You love your dogs and are fiercely protective of your friends and family. You love to tell stories and have your dad's flair for energetic story telling. You are just as happy playing princesses as you are Thomas or dinosaurs, and often all are mixed together in a jumble of brightly colored plastic and imagination. You are madly in love with your cousins and they are quickly becoming the only ones who can hold your attention on FaceTime. You can be stubborn and unwilling to listen, but you are rarely anything but kind and loving. In so many ways, you are simply a joy.

And each night as we lay you down to sleep and you rattle off your list of things to thank God for (Mommy, Daddy, Puppies, Ice water...), I thank God for you. For the chance to know you, love you, and watch you become you. 

Three is going to be a big year, baby girl. I know you will embrace it all with laughter and tenacity. Happy birthday, Bon. Love, Momma

What's in a name?

Growing up, I loved being a Kyle. An Army brat, we had ended up in Southeast Virginia 600 miles from the closest Aunt and Uncle and the generation above my parents was long gone. It was lonely sometimes to not have the big family. The cousins growing up down the street. The throng of grandparents at concerts and graduations. In my small town, it seemed like everyone had more relatives then they knew what to do with while we were just our small little unit of five.

Some of my favorite Kyles:
Kyle Douglas, Nate Kyle, Wendy Kyle, Bonnie Kyle, and Jackie Kyle

So being a Kyle connected me. It was a bond to my West Virginia roots and our far-flung family just like Bowden tied me to Tennessee and South Carolina. It was an ubiquitous reminder that I was part of a family and something greater than just myself. Like any good Southern father, my dad was constantly regaling us with family lore. From Great Grandmother Bobbie hiding from the Yankees in a dark well to life in post-war Germany with his Army officer father, we heard it all often and repeatedly with reverence. As a child, though, these stories were as distant to me as any other he might tell me of Anne of Green Gables or the shores of Narnia. The name, though - carrying both sides of the family in just two little words - made these stories mine.

I always knew, then, that my babies would one day have family names. I think I managed to play it cool all the way until our second date, when, in between drinks at our favorite bar (a thing that used to exist when we were still young and fun), I loudly and awkwardly blurted out, "So what should we name our kids?"

It was the first time I witnessed RB's now frequent "Oh, what have I gotten myself into?" face. He stammered something about what he might name a dog one day ("Clemson or Tiger." "No.") and then sidetracked into what, exactly, did I mean by kidS? After I negotiated him up from two and he talked me down from six (four it is!), he finally came around to names. He had no girl names picked out, because of course, he would only be having male children. He was one of two boys and wasn't used to the world of little girls, so he would just stick with masculine children thankyouverymuch. For boys, he didn't know much but he knew he wanted a son named William after his beloved dad. Perfect. We are both on board. Family names it is.

Fast forward five years, one marriage, and two dogs (neither named Clemson or Tiger, I might add)

Mom and the Original Bonnie

later, and there we were - pregnant with our first sweet baby girl. It took me all of two seconds to come up with a name. Bonnie Kyle. Kyle tying her to so many of those we love and who play an important role in our lives. Bonnie as a nod to my long passed grandmother, a woman of myth in my mind. She passed just a few days after my first birthday and my knowledge of her exists only in the yellowing photos of our family albums and the love-soaked words of her children, children-in-law, and grandkids old enough to remember her.

Skip forward almost three more years, and, despite RB's confidence in his destiny as a father of many sons, here we are waiting on another little girl. Before we even started trying, I knew our next girl would be Katherine after my own beloved mother. Naming a grandchild after my momma would be a way of honoring and loving her, one last way to say thank you for the woman and mother she was. We went back and forth on the middle name. RB leaned towards "Maley," another old family name. I wanted "Bowden." But, as RB will tell you often happens when I am pregnant, I managed to wear him down with incessant whining win the argument. Katherine Bowden Buchanan is all ready now for birth and monogramming.

Totally in love with each other from Day One. 

My sweet Bonnie has so many tangible reminders of her relationship with her Ganma. In the short 18 months they shared together, B accumulated hundreds of photos, books with loving inscriptions, and cards for the littlest of holidays. My momma poured out her love frequently and passionately and B will have those love remnants for the rest of her life. Our sweet baby Katherine, though, will never take a picture with her grandmother or receive a card just because or open a well-loved book to see Ganma's words spilling out. Her namesake will be just out of reach for her - a face she recognizes easily in photographs, a woman whose life story she knows well, a love she can almost feel but can't recall - just as my grandmother was for me. I hope this name is an anchor for her. Of who she came from. Of who has loved her, even before she was born. Of who she wants to become. That when all else may seem lost, she will always have this name reminding her of all those who have loved and wanted her.

I hope the name also reminds her daily that she is part of something bigger than just herself. That on both her mom and dad's side, we believe in family. In the importance of recognizing what those before you overcame and accomplished so that you could be who you are and have what you do today. That "God, family, country" is more than just a catchy bumper sticker.

I hope, too, in some small, selfish way that the name is a balm to our aching souls. That it reminds us all that there is a time to be born and a time to die. And though that may make for heartbreaking, mortal pain, a greater glory awaits us all.

In most translations, Katherine means "pure" or "clear." I don't know that there is another love as pure or clear as a grandmother for her granddaughter. And though my two Katherines will never meet on this Earth, though they will not forge a relationship through late night rocking and early morning walks, sweet kisses and shared experiences, I know that love will exist as pure as ever.

Even if Bonnie does insist on calling her little sister "Ariel."

A grief evolving.

Yesterday was my parent's 40th wedding anniversary.

Two years ago, we celebrated in Georgia. Momma and Daddy surrounded by their grandbabies, glowing in their love, with lots of talk of anniversaries past and anniversaries to come. They held hands and blew out a candle that our waiter sweetly
brought though none of us knew what to sing or quite how to react to an anniversary cake with candle. Later that night, as we tied tags to the lilies we would give away at B's dedication the next day, Momma and I casually talked about having a big party for their 40th. Maybe at the O Club. Or James River? Invite all the family and dearest friends. She got quiet as she thought about it, pushing her hair back as she considered the options. "Let's save that for the 50th," she said. "There won't be any babies. It will be easier to plan. And 50 is such a big deal. Maybe your daddy and I will just go somewhere wonderful for 40."

Last year, all of us still mucking through the year of firsts, I felt like I held my breath all of April. RB fielded questions constantly from me as I tried to approach this anniversary the best way possible. Should B and I go up there? Should we invite my dad down? Should we send flowers? Food? I should just go up there, right? He handled it with his usual grace, allowing me to sort it out in my head and debate it with my dad and giving me the space to figure out how, at that very moment, I needed to best grieve. Then, in typical "I am my father's daughter" fashion, my dad and I both approached the anniversary through writing. I reflected on their marriage from the outside looking in; he lamented it in the most intimate of ways. It wasn't my anniversary, or Albert's, or Molly's, but we all felt it. The loss. The intense grieving. The feeling that the foundation of all we were had started to crumble away. There were too many text messages and phone calls to count. Hushed tones of how are you to each other followed by the forced happy tones of talking to nieces about plans for the day or birds spotted on the water.

This year, in a haze of a rough pregnancy and a sick toddler, the day slipped through my fingers. In what RB refers to my "stay at home" mode, I thought it was the 23rd all day yesterday. Laying in bed, closing my eyes from the nausea and fatigue, I started going over the week's plans in my head. Monday, check. Tuesday, check. As our schedule unfolded and the calendar appeared in my head, I sat up in bed with a start. The 23rd was several days past. Today is the 26th. A slew of words neither one of my parents would appreciate were muttered under my breath. I had forgotten. Another anniversary gone. The 40th. What two years ago was a most anticipated day and a year ago another day we approached with dread and caution and just worked to get through, had passed with not even a blip until almost midnight.

Instantly, the guilt set in. The guilt of not reaching out to my precious dad on a day that I am sure already feels unbearably lonely. The guilt of having something that would be so important to my momma completely overlooked in the chaos that is the life we have kept living. The guilt of having just kept living our lives while she was gone.

And as the tears came and the guilt morphed into just sorrow and loss, I realized this is how my grief evolves. That these days that were so difficult to bear the first time around just become part of our routine. The numbers on the calendar start to matter a little less and it becomes more about the every day, the overall longing. It is sometimes the most quiet and unexpected of times that her absence is felt more than ever. As we near Mother's Day, I don't want to hide like I did last year. I don't start crying at the very mention of it. I can face it. I have done it before.

But last Thursday night, a regular day with no important significance, after B was tucked in and the house quiet while RB worked late, I sat at the kitchen table and cried. The kind of crying that hits hard and fast and feels like it will never end. The kind of crying that is painful in the midst of it but afterwards feels like a cleansing of your soul. I texted two of my oldest and closest friends. The girls who had seen me argue with my mom about curfews and cardigans and how she was ruining my life, heard my stories of homesickness during college, laughed at the antics of wedding planning, and hugged my mom fiercely at my baby shower. "I am having such a hard night. I can't believe I am going to have this sweet baby that my mom will never meet. It just breaks my heart."

Their love and support immediately poured back to me, without question. Their kind words a balm to an aching soul. And it wasn't a special day. It wasn't an anniversary, or a birthday, or another holiday without her. It was just another Thursday. Another regular week without her. Another week closer to having a baby that she will never meet. This is how my grief has evolved. How the calendar has shifted with important days painful but those moments that catch you by surprise... these are the real moments that take my breath away and remind me that I am still very, very much in the midst of this process.

So we all continue to muddle through and understand our grief as it changes. We work on year two and we live our lives and we understand more what is it to be a family without her. A family that was started 40 years ago yesterday, in a pretty chapel in almost Heaven West Virginia, by a beautiful woman just as madly in love with a young soldier as he was with her. Though the day may slip by and our remembrance not be what it should, I am thankful every day for the love and commitment you all shared. For the years experienced together and the family that you built. Happy anniversary, Momma and Daddy.

Growing Pains

I saw it for the first time last night. As the pale light from the bathroom washed over your sunkissed Florida cheeks, I could see it all so clearly. Though you have cheeks for days still, the "baby-ness" of your face is melting away. Your once chubby arms, perfect in their rolls and width, have slimmed out and are now long and graceful. I could see it all in the dimness of the night, as you so peacefully snuggled between your daddy and me.

I could see the little girl you were becoming. Though still a baby in my heart, your baby days are quickly fading into the past. In the cut of your chin and the profile of your face - that face that could be an exact replica of your grandmother's - I could see you as a teenager. Young but independent, as vibrant and fierce as you are today. I stared at your long lashes and the lips you inherited from your daddy and saw you at my age. 30. Would you have your own babies? Live down the street or half a world away? Wherever you are, whoever you are... you won't be the little baby that sits in my lap while we read, letting me twirl your curls around my finger and softly singing along with lullabies. You won't be the sweetheart reaching for my hand, even if its just so I will join you in the kitchen or so you have my complete undivided attention. I could see your face then just as clearly as I see it now

24 hours old. 

And as I looked at your face, as I saw with certainty that the baby was fading and the forever you - the you that we would recognize for decades to come - was emerging with a fearful rapidness, my heart broke. I longed to tuck you under those covers and keep you there forever, safe and happy, awash in the love of your parents and extended family and dearest friends. I wanted to stop the clock so that you would only know this beauty of childhood, when all is well and happy and exciting. Before you could discover that the world can be scary and sad and hard. So hard sometimes, my girl.

I laid there and it felt like for a moment time stood still. Your soft breathing competed with your dad's and the rain on the window to be the loudest noise in the otherwise quiet night. And I prayed for you. Fervently and honestly, it poured out of me. Let you be loved. And safe. And healthy. Content with who you are and easily able to find the happiness in your own skin that evades so many women today. Let this country you call home remain strong and free and brave, while it seems the world spins out of control. Let you know Christ and love and live for Him. Let your heartbreaks be small and your victories be humble. Let you have strength for the hardest of times and a softness for those around you.

And I prayed for your daddy and myself. That we would be what you needed when you needed it. That we would be role models for you. That our sacrifices would give you the material things you needed but not be so much that they took away the time and attention you need. That we would be there for you, a steady presence in an otherwise unsteady word.

18 months old

As I prayed, I felt a calmness pour over me... a sense of peace about letting you grow up. I stared at your sweet face, your dad's just in the background, and thought of all the most precious moments in my life. Since I grew up, there has been so much joy and love. While I recall my childhood with such tenderness and fondness, those sweetest moments of life - the ones that can bring me tears of happiness with just the slightest amount of reminiscing - are all those that happened since I grew up. The first time your dad told me he loved me. When he asked me to marry him on your aunt's front porch and then vowed his love in the church where I was baptized. Holding you when you were just hours old. The quiet summer evenings when you were so very new and we just rocked you endlessly. The first time you called me "Mommy." Even with the worst of heartaches - losing your beloved ganma - there was sweetness in our friends and family rallying around us. The stories we were told, the shoulders we cried on, the meals we were fed. So much beauty and joy in the love of others.

These are the moments that fill my heart when the rest of the world seems dark and lonely. These are the moments I want you to experience. Yes, the world is dark and scary. Your heart will be broken and your knees skinned. But there is so much beauty and wonder about it all. So much happiness and love to be experienced. So many adventures still to have.

So today, my darling, I am okay if you grow up just a little. If you become a little bit more of your forever you and a little less of my baby. Just not too fast, my girl. Not too fast.

2 1/2 years old

One Year Later

A year ago yesterday, in a brief break in the rain, we buried my sweet Momma at Arlington. We had said goodbye over 10 weeks before that on a cold night in a cold hospital and again four days later, in a giant church that was not our home, surrounded by all those who were so familiar to us but seemed so out of place in the surreal setting.

Everyone told me it would take a year. Hold on for a year. Get through the first round of Christmases and birthdays, see each season change, just knock off those first 365 days.

For me, this weekend seems like the full year. Yes, it is actually 14 months. Those months between death and burial, though, were almost a pause in grief. We moved forward - we had the first round of holidays, the first family birthdays - we went back to Georgia. To work. To the inertia of the everyday. At the same time though, we were still in the very formal, prescribed stages of planning grief. There were calls to Arlington to understand the burial process. Limos to be secured. Restaurant reservations. Flights. Flower arrangements.

Our calendars for 2014 were broken into two segments - before Feb. 21st and after. It presented this weird dichotomy where we couldn't wait to just get through it. Just have it be done. But at the same time, how terrifying was it to have it be done? Of course, had we never gone through with the burial
or had we buried her in Poquoson shortly after her death, she would have been just as gone as she is now. But planning the burial - latching onto one more event that was totally focused on her - who she was, what she meant to us, how much she was loved - gave us one more connection to her as so many rapidly and quickly disappeared.

Bowden cousins in DC

And then, before we knew it, we were in DC. Cousins and aunts and old friends from every corner of the country. We reconnected. We hugged and laughed and cried, with her presence there looming. When we had finished saying all we felt we had to say, we dispersed again. Each of us returning to our own little corner of the world with our own private grief to burden in our own way. Then it was the real year - the real grieving - began.

Thanks to Steph for brightening
our Christmas. 

Now that year has passed. I haven't been back to Arlington since we said goodbye but will feel the urge when something monumental happens or when the seasons change or when I long to just rest my head in her lap and recap the day. Albert has been back. So has Daddy. One of her nieces. Two sweet and precious sorority sisters surprised me with visits to her grave on Mother's Day and Christmas. A year out, though, I don't know that I actually want to go back. I am not sure I want to see the finality of the gray slab in the midst of so much sadness. Though again, regardless of whether or not I go, her loss is so, so final.

The finality of all, I think, is the hardest part. Get through that first year, everyone said. And we did. We survived it. As a family, we came out a year later a little bit stronger and a little bit closer. So, that is done and now I want it to all be done. I survived the year. I paid my penance. Now, I would like my mom back please. I don't want to keep doing this for 50 more years.

As we move forward from the one year mark, the gap between us having her and not having her widens and grows in unimaginable ways. I think of my sweet B, how Momma adored her, and all I can think now is.. she has had more Christmases without her Ganma than with. How can that be possible? How can it be possible that all the good that is still left to come will come without her by us? That we have a whole year and counting of memories that don't involve her quick wit or easy laugh?

A year later, it doesn't sting quiet as much. I don't lose my breath when I remember she is not there for me to call. I don't wince when I catch pictures of her out of the corner of my eye or when new friends ask if we will visit her for the summer. Laughing feels a little less effortless and guilt-laced. Crying has become less frequent while it's healing nature a little longer lasting. Yet at the same time, the emptiness remains. The strangeness of being a family of origin of four rather than five, of planning trips with just my precious dad, of having no one to celebrate on her birthday is still very much alive.

A year later, and I straddle the needs of being a daughter so deeply in mourning and a woman, sister, wife, friend, and mother who doesn't want to just be the sad one who lost her mom. I want my relationships back the way they were... without the whispered questions and sad eyes. At the same time, I still feel so very much that I am living this every moment of every day it seems natural to me that everyone else would be too. Just as if I was pregnant or we were moving or any other life change - I would expect this to be on everyone's lips. But how exhausting it is to constantly be grieving.

So, a year later, here we are. In the past 12 months, we have seen heartache and pain. We have laughed with pure joy. We have made inappropriate "your momma" jokes and had our hearts broken when those closest to us lost their own moms. We have welcomed new life and rejoiced with our friends. We have mourned that our sweet Momma has not seen our own babes grow. We have prayed and clung close to our faith. We have held tight to our memories and pictures and sweaters that still smell like her.

And so we face year two. The gap between her being here and her not continues to widen. We move on. We love and laugh and serve like she would have. Like she would have wanted us to do. Happiness starts to outweigh the sorrow. And maybe during year two, I will go to Arlington. See her final resting place, rub my hands on the cold stone, lay her favorite tulips on the grass, and just be. Be thankful for the time I had with her. Thankful for all she taught me and how she loved me. Be proud of who she was to so many people. Just be with her, for a little of year two.