Happy Birthday in Heaven, Mom
Dear Mom,
My whole life, November 1st has been your day. And November is a month we always shared because it’s your birthday, then my birthday, then Thanksgiving. I wish more than anything that you were here today, eating breakfast in bed in our guest room. Instead, you’re eating endless bowls of ice cream while dancing around Heaven with your parents.
It’s hard to believe your life on earth is over, that there will be no new memories with you. It’s hard to understand, but I know where you are is better for you than anything here. It seems like I could reach out and touch you in these photos - you’re still so real to me.
We released 4 shimmery purple balloons into the sky this evening at sunset. Don’t worry, they were biodegradable! 😬 And we wrote messages for you on them, just in case they would reach you, and you could read all the things we wish we could still say to you. I still think it feels temporary that you’re gone, that you just might appear again on the farm, help me harvest tomatoes or pet the cats on the front porch and tell me (again) how you think cats should be living inside instead of outside. 😆
And what are we going to do without your Christian rap songs and Christmas carols played on the piano at our holiday gathering with friends?
I honor your beautiful life today and miss you more than words can say. I still see the threads of Creation care that you wove into my life. I remember you in every honeybee and hummingbird and cardinal and coneflower that I see. I think of you when I fill the bird feeders outside my living room window. I’ll never stop being thankful that you taught me so many good and beautiful things.
Happy 78th birthday in Heaven, Mom. 🫶🏽
Some birthdays past…Poppy always sent you a huge vase of chrysanthemums (the November flower) on your birthday, and then he did the same for me. Our home was always filled with them the entire month!
A favorite photo of us from one of the last times you were able to visit us in Tennessee…
Your Mother Is Always With You
by Deborah R. Culver
She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street.
She’s the smell of certain foods you remember, flowers you pick, the fragrance of life itself.
She’s the cool hand on your brow when you’re not feeling well.
She’s your breath in the air on a cold winter’s day.
She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep, the colors of a rainbow.
She is Christmas morning.
Your mother lives inside your laughter.
She’s the place you come from, your first home.
She’s the map you follow with every step you take.
She’s your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy.
But nothing on Earth can separate you.
Not time.
Not space.
Not even death.
