I prayed for this, all of it. The life I so beautifully have. The adoring husband. The beautiful and healthy children. The supportive family and the unwavering friendships. The house that’s decorated so joyfully with the photos of everyone we love. I prayed for it all.
And naively, I thought my mother would always be a part of it. That she’d be here to see all of these meaningful prayers be answered. That she’d be here, with me.
I never knew I should have been praying for her to remain or that she’d be called to heaven before she’d see me experience the bliss from all of the answered prayers that are now visible in front of me.
I never knew to be praying for her, my mother, until it was too late. Until my prayers had to shift from a miracle to peace. Until my prayers became wishes and hopes and Hail Mary’s instead of realistic possibilities.
So, now I stand here so grateful for the people and experiences in front of me but so desperately missing my mother. Aching for her love and her guidance and her physical presence. Things I wish I’d prayed harder for, prayed differently for, prayed successfully for.
That is grief. It’s gratitude mixed with mourning. Regret mixed with remembrance. It’s bittersweet happiness and heartache, together.
I prayed for this, all of it. The life I so graciously have. And I pray she can see it too, from eternity and the place she was called.
I prayed for this, all of it.
And I pray she can see it.
And I pray she knows how much she is loved.
