Five years

Less than 12 hours after my mom's first stroke, as the entire family stood nervously around her hospital bed, Daddy asked us to pray before we left. I don't remember the entirety of his prayer. I remember holding my brother's hand and wondering how long it had been since I had done that. A decade? More? I remember wondering why the room was so dark though the halls were buzzing and we were all talking at a normal level. Did the lights bother her? Was she sleeping? Could she feel us there? I remember repeating "Please, God, please" in my head after each word Daddy said. And then I remember him ending the prayer asking for mercy. Not healing or miracles or to go back to 24 hours in time - just simply mercy.

Over the next few days, he would expand on what mercy meant to him. That mercy would be in God's timing. That it would either be full healing or little suffering.

So, I, too, prayed for mercy. Of course, it was mostly one prayer of mercy for every ten prayers of complete healing, but I prayed for mercy, too.

I thought mercy came on Dec. 9, 2013. It wasn't the healing answer we wanted, but she was no longer suffering. Though our hearts were broken and lives shattered, her's was fully restored. She was with her own momma, grandparents, friends, and family long lost - dancing in Heaven with God. Mercy had come to her.

And I thought that was the end of mercy. Asked and we had received. But now, on the fifth anniversary, though my heart is still broken and my days still full of mourning, I see His mercies renewed day after day.

There is mercy in my relationship with my own children - where my patience is restored and my attention focused because I understand now, truly, how quickly things can change and moments for love and kind words never returned.

There is mercy in empathy, where those who tread this motherless road before me reached out tenderly and patiently, always seeming to know the stage of grief I stumbled through blindly. There is mercy in allowing me to be empathetic to those who have gone after me. Though I may not have been the balm to them as others were me, I found purpose in being able to be there for them. To let them know that though the loss may never fully heal, life could be joyful and light again. That joy does come in the morning.

There is mercy in friendships and role models. As Momma's friends have sent my babies' cards every holiday so they felt her love or called on my birthday because they understand the significance of the day, I have felt the mercy of their love. I have felt inspired to build those kind of relationships for myself and model them for my children. I have been lucky to be surrounded by those who love me fiercely and allow me to love them back. There is mercy in our relationships and the joy they bring, day in and day out, and that great loss has shown me what great love can mean as it is passed down from one generation to the next.

There is mercy in community, as our small hometown rallied around us and loved on us. I felt a sense of security I thought had long been lost since the days of my childhood. When mothers of childhood friends who I hadn't seen in a decade embraced me and held me and prayed over me - even just running into them in the grocery store years later - there was mercy in their kindness. They stood in the gap that my momma left behind and filled a role I so desperately craved.

There is mercy in the memories she left behind - the hundreds of notes and gifts and photographs from her that always seem to pop up just as I need them. Her words in her own hand are a reminder to me that I was loved and believed in only as a mother can love and believe in a daughter.

And through each passing year and every stage of grief that I float back and forth between, I am reminded of God's unfailing mercy and that His promises are always kept. And maybe that is the greatest mercy of all. That her death and my sorrow have only drawn me closer to Him - brought me to my knees in prayer and desperate grief, but allowed me to stand with thankfulness and renewed strength.

Five years has passed more quickly than I could ever imagine. My heart breaks routinely for all that she has missed and for all that my babies do and will miss. Stronger, though, than any pain felt here on Earth, His mercies lift up my soul and my heart sings His praises.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never comes to an end; they are new every morning, great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23