An Open Letter to God

Dear God,

I'm asking, no, I'm begging you for a miracle here. I've been praying for you to do your will, but I'm selfish. I want a miracle. I want you to show me that you hear my prayers, I want you to spare someone's life. Please. I wasn't ready for my mother to die. If she'd been an old, old lady with a pile of great grandkids on her lap, I wouldn't have been ready. We are selfish to want them to stay, I know. But, honestly, these kids aren't ready for this. And that's what I'm worried most about. Don't take their mother from them; no one is ever ready to lose someone they love, but this...this is just unfair.

I know, I know. Life isn't fair. And what's fair for me may not be fair for others. I know. And I know what I'm asking. But I'm at a loss. I can do nothing but hope and pray at this point.

But I'm hurt and angry. At you, God, all over again. I thought I'd finally made my peace with you over losing my own mother. I decided that you knew what was best. But this? This makes me uncertain all over again.

Mom would probably tell me not to be angry with you. In fact she did tell me that once upon a time. But who should I be angry at? Why do I feel so angry, anyway? Why do I have so many blessings in my life that I most certainly don't deserve? Why? Why? Why?

But this isn't about me. I suppose it isn't about what I want, but what you want. That's tough, God. To leave it all in your hands when I feel like there should be something I can do. Perhaps questioning you isn't the right thing to do either. The one person in this world who might help me make sense of this life is already gone, and all those who were left behind are being dealt more misery as I write this.

I don't even know that I should be writing this, except that it's the one thing, my one gift from you, that makes me feel like I have some control in this chaotic world. Writing is what I'm supposed to do. Sometimes it's the only thing I can do. So I'll leave you with this one last thing...please send us a miracle. I beg of you.

Beth

Are You In? -- Incubus

This past weekend we had a task. One which we had been putting off for over four years now.

Cleaning out Mom's side of the closet. Four tubs, stacks of shoe boxes, all the hanging garments. It took us quite a while to sort through everything.

Mostly we considered what we could, would, wouldn't, couldn't wear of everything. The strangest thing was that Mom had at least one piece of clothing of ours! A pair of Amy's jeans; Daniel's Browns, Spielman jersey; my old t-shirt, and a hat of Sarah's, just to name a few.

We also found some pieces from back in the day, which Sarah and I modeled. (I came home with a very Miami Vice plaid blazer that you'd have to see to believe!) We found a zippered bag that, Dad told us, contained the dress she wore on their wedding night after they'd changed from their ceremonial attire. And just let me tell you, Mom was tiny! My thigh would have fit comfortably in the waist of that dress.

Not to mention that Dad has impeccable taste in clothing, so the closet was full of trendy suits, coats, blazers and blouses. Recounting it now makes me feel wretched. Like wearing the clothes she gave me isn't strange enough, but it was the fact that we were going through everything like each piece we kept--a scarf, a t-shirt, a nightgown--was like trying to hold onto the fleeting pieces of her. These clothes were what we had left of things inherently Mom. We were perusing the items saying, "I remember that one," and, "She wore that all the time."

We set aside things we knew her sisters might like, and allotted only a box of shoes to the give-away, but only after, of course, the Aunts went through them. A lot of things were left, really, for the Aunts to go through. But we ALL got something of hers, something we had missed that was ours too!

Some things that were iconic Mom outfits we kept to put into an acid-free box as keepsakes, like the dresses she had set aside, and a few of our own choosing. And yet another pile was dedicated to interesting t-shirts and printed pajamas she wore all the time, with which we intend to make a blanket (But first I guess I'm going to have to master the freakin sewing machine, because the tension is all off on mine and I haven't tried to use it in over a year!).

I haven't cried, if that means anything, but I've been trying to stay positive about the whole thing. It's just one more piece of letting go.