As March Comes to a Close

Dear Allison, on this most amazing day, magnificent and perfect, I am almost relieved that March has come to an end....relieved, in part, because I am still standing, still alive and vibrant, and I can hear you whisper, again, as you do so often, "you did it, mom". Yes, I did it, not alone, never alone, always with you in every heart beat, always guided by your spirit that wouldn't let me rest, even if I wanted to, guided by a loving God who has helped me focus on your three years in heaven, and not a number on a birthday cake, spurred by giving back, paying it forward, molded to be the role model your family and friends need, giving your sister the time and light she deserves as she, too, lives to honor you and walk closer with God above, I am learning to serve in ways I never dreamed I could, and being that constant companion to your father, who lives strong, consistent, and loving in your memory. Sometimes, we talk, sometimes, the silence is what we need, but always, the comfort of having a partner who understands, respects, and loves is that never ending reminder that we are, and always will be, yes, a married couple, but your parents, two different and unique souls who are joined together till death do us part.

I find myself being a bit relieved, because, like the March weather, the tumultuous churning in my insides may get a little rest. Just maybe. But then, here we are on the eve of the holiest of celebrations, the threshold of summer, and with that brings new and breathless moments. But I am learning to pace. I do what I can, when I can, I rest when I need, I stop when I must, and I go when I can. You see to that. And if you had your way, I would seize every opportunity known to man, fly to any and all destinations, and taste the simple pleasures of life, continually! And I do, and I will, but I know that as I learn how to live in this new fashion, stage, and phase, I have to sometimes ask for you to let me rest, breathe, and slow a bit, but I also know I will pick myself back up, and move. I never say forward, I never say past it, I never say ON, I just say MOVE. Movement is the key!

I will always have many thoughts and emotions whirling about, inside my soul, heart, mind. Each new day takes me to a different place in this journey. Yes, I want to scream and cry at the injustice, the disbelief, the uncertainty, the confusion, the despair. I want to try use my words to explain to others when they ask me questions that one should never ask a grieving mother, but they don't know, they just don't know. I want to rid everyone of their opinions as to what I/we need, and I want to let them know that three years is nothing, it's a speck, that there is no timeframe to becoming whole again, if indeed that is even possible. I want the world to stop, if only for a moment. And I want to keep it real, as Barb would say! I want others to "get it", but then I don't, because I never want them to know this pain. I want them to know that just because they see me and I look vibrant and rested, that all it took to get there, the tears, the pain, the emotions, the struggles, have made me stronger and wiser. I want to let others know I didn't ask for this, but it is mine, I own it, and I must respond to it. That's all I have left, how I will live this day.

I will seize it, my daughter, and I will embrace it, and I may leave the dust or the closet for another day, March has come to a close, and I must celebrate so much.

My love is endless, Mom

Dear Allison, the "fog" is heavy

Dear Allison, while beauty and life surround me in so many forms, and I find the blessing in the moments, one by one as they tick by, I must be honest that the fog of grief is heavy at times, right now. I suppose that is why I am writing again, fast and furiously as I make my way through your birthday month, only to realize that another holiday awaits...Easter Sunday. When that thought came upon me today, there it was again, the strain of grief, the wave of stopping me in my tracks, telling myself to breathe, reminding myself that as I prepare a meal you will not be here. I have barely been able to relax and savor your birthday, the celebrations, the moments with your sister, father, aunt, and house full of family and friends last week. How can this be that I have to pull it up again and again and again...why does the "fog" seem so constricting and choking, even as I look around and see the wonder that surrounds me.

Sometimes, most times, grief occupies my life to the edges of everything...my soul, my heart, my mind, my actions, my words...yes, I want to scream, it is all consuming. I want you here, I want you back, I don't want to hear the word cancer one more time, I don't want to visit with one more grieving mother, I don't want to even imagine living out the rest of my days without you. So, I put all that I face and cope with in little compartments of my being, and I take them out when I can. I handle them, one by one, or more than one at a time, little by little, or a lot at a time, and I know that I am no longer the person I was before...before this. And sometimes I feel like I cannot see the hand in front of me, or what is to come from all this, or even remember what has specifically happened in my life. Yes, I recall, but sometimes with the events blending into one, or having to review my journal just to know when, how, where, and why I did some particular thing. But that's not really the important part...it's the pain of living in a "fog" that gets to me at times, I want it cleared, I want to know what lies ahead, I want to SEE how this all will play out, but I can't, Allison, I just can't. So, I keep the promise of God's wisdom, grace, and love in front of me at all times. I find comfort in the ways I know how, from my readings, from those who care and love me, and while they will never understand, they try, or they ask, or they take that minute to share a thought or hear a story.

Sometimes it feels as though there is nothing in the horizon but this...this grief, this pain, this ache, this life without you in it. But I know that is not true. There is much to be thankful for, and I list those in my blessing journal every day. I find them, I seize the day, I live as clean as I can, I take no drugs to cope, but I am no hero, I am just one mother of millions who buried their child way too soon, who now must live on in the way that will make you proud, myself proud, and God proud.

The "fog" may never lift, I may remain sensitive when others lose their patience with me, I may remain confused when others say things that I cannot even respond to, I may find myself resorting to tears of frustration, anger, or disbelief at times, and I may offend others while I dance in and out of this thing called grief. I may not know what I need, who I need, what I can do, what I cannot. But I am learning, taking all cues from God above, being still to hear and listen intently, follow my spirit that is guided from a loving God, the angels, and you.

Indeed, the "fog" is heavy, Allison, but I will be patient with myself. I will allow what is to be, accept what IS, and take the opportunity to start anew. I will live in my grief. I will live.

March is closing soon, my letters may stop, but not my writing. You are always my only audience as I pour my heart out, and I will never stop knowing you, talking with you, and loving you in my heart. I reached my goals and birthday blessings, and I will not stop the daily random act of kindness, and I will keep walking, physically, and spiritually, as I take that closer walk with thee.

You are my light out of this "fog", this I know for sure, your mom

Dear Allison, It's All About The "Inside" Work

My dear one, child of mine, birthday girl...the celebrations of life continue as we continue to seize the day and make the most of it, of the moments, the hours, the relationships, those who come into our lives for a reason that we may not know at the time, and for those who have stood by us through it all...it continues to be such a complex journey. But celebrate we did, and seize the time, we did. And savor. And breathe in, breathe out, feel your presence, your spirit guiding us, your laughter, your love. We have made it through a time that could have been most difficult by doing it our way, and with the help of so many who we knew, and those we didn't, we have been able to step outside of ourselves, give back and raise money for your memorial scholarships through celebrating and fellowship of women. It was glorious. It was what life is supposed to be about, this past weekend, when in our hearts you turned 25 years old, yet, now, we know, where you reside, there is no number. Only life. And it's all different now.

Dad and I talked a long time about how our feelings, emotions, pain, yet spirit, is really no different than any other day. And that is true. But something on the inside negates that thought, contradicts what our minds try to say, or try to explain with some reason. And while it is true, I must say there IS something different. My friend, Kim, who is a grieving mother, coming upon her daughter's 28th birthday AND passing date in the same week, next week, said something that has "stuck" with me...she said that it's as if she is trying to "trick" herself into believing that these milestones are just like any other day. That nothing is different. I "get" what she means...maybe we do try to "trick" ourselves! We gear up, we plan, we honor one another's feelings, we celebrate in a way that is comforting to us, and while we know in our hearts that EVERY day is a celebration, there really IS something a bit "different" about those special days. I guess we cannot deny it, it comes, and it goes, and so it goes, morning comes, and so does night, and all minutes in between. The seasons come and they go, and on the day of your birth, how appropriate that you were born on the threshold of spring, when the world blooms and transforms, and there comes a light that changes everything.

And Allie, how I, a grieving mother, get from one point to the other, travel the spiral of this wretched walk, is working on myself. That's what I call the "inside" work. Every part of this journey is about what is on the inside of me, my heart, my soul, my mind, my physical state, my complete being. There is not a shred or fiber of my total package that does not scream out for you, to have this be a dream, to beg God to let me wake up from this nightmare. But I work from the inside out, and I pray, and I read, and I affirm, and I make room for what my heart can hold, and I protect, and I shed, and I cry, and I scream, but I laugh, I smile, I enjoy, I hold, I touch, I smell, I feel with new intensities that I would have never known. In my broken state I am becoming whole. If only I could describe it, but I know I do not have to...I owe no one anything, not even you. But still, I make decisions that are pleasing to myself, my family, that includes you, your father, your sister, and to my God. I know there will be that judgement day, that day of reunion with you, that day the spirit of God will take me to His Kingdom and know that I have accepted His grace and mercy, knowing I was not created to be worthy on this earth, but worthy enough to accept His gifts. It is nothing I have done, or ever will, that will lead me to His throne. It will be living pure for Him, planning for the time when all I have to do is rest my weary body, and let my soul speak for itself. So, while I can, I will work from the "inside" out and learn more, seek and find myself. It is not easy. I know I was on the path long before you left, but when YOU were the one God took home, well, a light and fire was lit inside me that I can never explain. I will do my best. It is not perfect. I am not, either. God didn't create perfect. But He does provide lessons, and I must learn them. And He provides this day. I will seize it, whether I falter and cry, carry burdens and pain, whatever it is, I will do it, and I will thank Him for it. I will have my moments, and I will pick myself up. No one else is going to do that for me. Everyone walks with their own burdens. I will keep working on the "inside" so that the outside responds.

This has been some birthday month, Allie. Yes, indeed. March will come to an end soon. And if it is God's will, I will live another month, and another and another. And I will make myself proud, you proud, your sister proud, and your father. And God will say, "Halleluiah".

I love you from the deepest core of my inside self, Mom

Allison, It's Your Day

Dear Allison, night has fallen on your birthday, and we managed to find our way to celebrate life, you, ourselves, in all kinds of ways, we paid tribute. I won't get into the details, but I will say that today was one of God's most perfect creations and as I get ready to drift into a much needed sleep, I am thankful for it, and thankful for many things. I have no words, tonight, really, but it didn't seem right to go to bed without sending you birthday wishes and blessings. I am coming to understand that so many people were touched by your day, your life, your legacy, and in a strange way, much more so than if you were still on earth. You have left your footprint in many ways, and the celebration isn't just for this day, it is for every day. This was not unlike any other day, I am still the same, I am your mother, now learning to know, love, and carry you in new ways, in the confine of my heart. I feel you and see you and know you in the pink flowers that arrived today from Aunt Kathy and Uncle David, in the lung cancer OPI nail color Aunt Karen and I used for our pedicures, in the beauty of the long walk on the Katy Trail, in Jennifer's laughter and spirit, in your father's determination to go out to a nice dinner when it would have been much easier to stay home, in the beauty of today's sky, in the streaks of pink that follow us, and in the photographs Sherry sent in honor of your birthday. I feel you guiding so many when I read the e-mails or Facebook messages, or the cards that came earlier in the week, or in the preparations for Sunday. Your birthday, this 25th, was and is a tribute to a guiding force that will never die, will always guide and light our way. God knows how I miss you, my dear youngest child, and always will. You gave us many presents today, in various forms, and I thank you for the will and determination to keep going. I am weary, I won't deny it, but tonight is for resting, and tomorrow is a new day, God willing that we get to spend it, living and honoring, as we do every day. No, today was not any different, just a number, but a day to commemorate. And we did. And I am proud, and my spirit is fulfilled.

You, I love, my dear one, Mom

Allison, You Are Such a Warrior

Dear Allie, this morning, well, actually all thoughout the night, thoughts of you permeated my soul,so deeply that it was definitely a toss and turn night. I had visions that you were still with us, I saw our hands linked together, walking through some fields, I felt so much peace, yet my insides roared till I thought I would be sick. This is what grief does, this is what happens to a mother when her child goes before her, no matter the age, I'm quite sure. To experience this is so out of sequence that it takes time to adjust, time to even realize, that we will not celebrate another birthday on this earth. But even through the restlessness, I remember seeing your face, not that of a little girl, but those of the legacy, the last weeks, the images, the smiles, the aura that seemed to surround you and it came to me that you never once acted as if you were the wounded one, the one that was "treated" unfairly, the one who was angry or bitter, or fearful, or enraged. Cancer never defined you, and today's lesson for me is that you were not the wounded, you were, and are, the warrior. Sure, you had your own thoughts that maybe you didn't always share with me, with us, for you had a protective shield when it came to us. But there were those times when we did lie together, cry together, fight the fight together. You were sad, confused, curious...but ever the warrior, NOT the wounded. I don't even think it occured to you to be the victim! I don't think it occured to you to give up on life! I know what DID occur to you...to take it all in stride, wake up and do it again, only to hear, every single day for eleven weeks that the cancer had taken a new turn, invaded a new place, spot, limb, organ. I also know it occured to you to ask about what happens after this lifetime. Those were the difficult conversations, not because of where you were going, but that you indeed WERE going. I don't know when I fully realized it, but all along you were ready in the only way that counts. You had your heart committed to a loving God and His Son, so, unlike cancer, that was not the perplexing part. It's just that you felt it was too young, Oh My God, how we felt that way, too. And still do. How are you NOT here for tomorrow's birthday? How are you not fulfilling your dreams, taking the trip with your friends to Vegas, boarding that plane tomorrow morning? How are you NOT here to open the packages that always brought you so much joy? How is it YOU that is taken from a mother and father who so desperately loved their daughter? No answers, and there never will be, other than the ones that bring us peace, peace that comes, even when understanding may not.

But Allie, this day, I am a warrior because you are a warrior! And maybe you were a warrior because we have always been! I tell your Aunt that we are Merle and Barbara's children, and have inbred strength and determination, and I have come to understand so much more about God's grace. That is the most significant gift of all. And I am thankful for it, I will accept it, be thankful, I will not be a victim, or wounded, no matter the circumstances, I will have learned the lesson, the gift you are giving me, on this magical 25th birthday.

My love runs so deep that I don't know where it starts, but I know there is no end,
Mom

Comfort

Dear Allison, I am asking God for peace and contentment as we approach your birthday, this Friday, a day that marks just another day, but not really. Those of us who walk in grief, and that is almost everyone who walks the planet,we know that the anniversaries and the birthdays and the celebrations all take on a different look, feeling, view when our loved one is gone. So I breathe in, I breathe out, I close my eyes, I move in a way that I can only pray is pleasing to God. I already know it is, to you. I feel your smile that your dad, sister and I are living, finding our way to maneuver, live, breathe, maybe dance, maybe sing again. I can't make promises, Allie, I just can't, but I will do my best, I already do, out of appreciation for this day, out of love for you, your father, your sister, myself.

Today, simply, I just need that encouragement to hold on to hope, hope in a future, hope that I have the opportunity to live, visit new places, see new sights, savor new and precious moments, hope that I will "live" with this loss.

I find it in the book of Jeremiah, Chapter 29, verses 11-13: For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I wll listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with allyour heart.

Today, that is all I need to know, that, and my spirit tells me God will bring me comfort in the days ahead. And your love will never die, leaving me a world of hope, comfort and this day to make you proud.

Love, Mom

Allison, I WILL be brave

Dear Allison, is it still March, why is lasting so long, yet, how can it be your birthday week, and the Sunday that we would often celebrate as a family, how is that it is here so soon? Here it is, the wearin' of the green, you, almost a St. Patrick's Day baby, but waited a little longer. You, gracing the world with your 10 pound presence...and I know, you don't like that part of the story! But I DID, and DO, after all, how many mothers can say they delivered an over 10 pound baby...probably many, but to me, that was the start of something magnificent. Well, not the start, the whole pregnancy was incredible, had such moments that I almost didn't believe, carrying you longer than the 9 month plan! Nothing went according to design when it came to your life in the womb and your life thereafter...nothing. Yet everything. And, so, here I go again, the "teeter totter" of this experience, the up and down and views that would have been hidden if not for you. I am not sure I always saw it, or even appreciated it, while you were here, your first birthday, your tenth, your thirteenth, your eighteenth, then your 21st, the last one we had with you physically. Oh, I surely did find the laughter, who could not when you were in our lives, the calmness, the sweetness, the contentment. What baby sleeps through the night the first night she comes home and wakes up cooing and happy? You, that's who! What baby barely cried, but had the nature of an angel, as your parents walked around in almost a state of disbelief. You, that's who! Sometimes it was as if you were not really here, yet you were, just as I wrote to you the other day. Then you were gone, and I cannot, for the life of me, pinpoint where 21 years went.

When I think of how blessed we were to have you that long, and when I ask God to help me find contentment that those years were what we were destined to have, when I desperately want more, more time, more experiences, more laughter, more YOU, I hear your voice, encouraging, guiding, and whispering softly; BE BRAVE. And I will, Allie, I promise, I will be brave. I am. I have needed courage and determination and fortitude before, but this is different. This is not like that first time I held your sister and prayed she would live through her first week of life after being so sick, I was SO naive, thinking that all good would come to us all the days of our lives, this is not like entering the classroom to thirty eager third graders, this is not entering the library as a first time principal about to hold her first faculty meeting, all eyes on her, this is not being transferred to a new school community, not knowing anyone at all, but being expected to do the job, this is not like whispering in my father's ear for the last time just how much I love him, and always will, as he lay in his final moments in our home, this is not like holding my mother's hand as we knew we had to release her to the light that was calling her. This is like nothing at all. And still, I must be brave.

I must be brave and live this day. I must hold on to hope. But where do I get that hope, that moment of peace, that contentment, when my world seems to have been shattered into millions of pieces, all tear stained, and strange, and unknown and uncharted. I turn to God for the promise of hope, the answers that He will reveal, in His timing, and not in mine. I cling to His word, this day, when I should be putting on the birthday tablecloth, making your favorite foods and waiting for the family to arrive, all of this, on the Sunday that we always celebrated YOU. Now we celebrate YOU in new ways. We find our way, we honor one another, and we find that what one can do, the other cannot, too much pain, too many tears. So, we talk and respect and hold each other's hands as we are guided as to what to do.

This year, the number 25 resonates in ways that cannot be described. God knows how you were on the threshold of your life, and while others can tell me that He needed an angel, you are at peace, you are where you need to be, I can still miss you. I can still fall to my knees, and I can still wonder, WHY? HOW? I can still stare in disbelief at your photographs, and look into your eyes, capture the moments spent with your sisters and friends, and our family photos of four. I can still outline your cheek, rub my finger over the outlines, and kiss your face. Oh God truly knows a mother's pain in not being able to see you one more time, celebrate one more birthday, know and see the woman you would have become. True enough, 25 is just a number and where you are now, it means nothing. There are no years to add, worries to consume you, fear and pain of cancer going one more place in your physical body, one more side effect, one more treatment...only bliss, and beauty, and light. That is what I strive to comprehend as I think of you, this birthday week, you as a spirit, whispering, loving, teaching, molding from the place in my heart that needs to hold you close. I WILL be brave, Allie, I will.

It's birthday week, and I will do what I must, what I can, what comes to me, through the spirit above, from you, from God, from my heart and soul. Unlike my dear friend Kim, I cannot put the candles on the cake, I cannot always do the tangible, I cannot place the balloons at your grave, and I cannot always "celebrate" in that way, but I can do what I am led to do, what feels right and good,knowing you lead me to the places I am supposed to visit, even when I never leave the house.

I will honor this time, this birthday, and if it is through tears, that will be okay. I will do it my way, respecting myself, those I love, and God almighty who has given me the grace to stay strong, be brave, and continue...just continue.

My heart holds you close, with every breath, Mom

Dear Allison...still so much that I want you to know, I suppose I would never run out of words to express, love to share, thoughts to convey. It's not going to stop just because you are gone. Everything is the same, yet it is all so different. I can express to you, as I did when you were here, but your passage has unleashed more in me than I ever even knew existed. I have spoken of the "onion" before, but it's as if the layers just peel off, slowly, gingerly, tenderly, never quite getting to the core. That's my analogy, and you know your mother, I must always have one! Instead of being in the classroom teaching English and Writing, and all other subjects in between, I am alone at a computer, with thoughts and lessons that are my own to learn, and right now, you are my audience. And today, I feel as though another layer has peeled off, very thin, paper thin really, and oh, so fragile. I am living, and I am making plans, and I am breathing well, for the moment. And I savor that when it comes. But to tell you the truth, it can bring fear, too. Fear of the unknown, fear of the times ahead that I just don't want to face, fear that I will forget...not forget you, of course, but forget the intensity of loss, the understanding, the empathy, the knowledge that this life is so much bigger than any of us can comprehend, fear that I will just resume life as it was, just plain fear. I am afraid that in giving up the pain, I will not remember that you are gone. How complex this is, this condition of grief. I want it gone from my life, stripped forever, I want to laugh a real laugh, shed the emotional fatigue, but at what cost will that happen? Will I forget? Or do I really need to remember? Do I really need to remember the painful parts of your life, your journey? Do I really need to recall with intense, gut wrenching emotion the day your sister shaved your head and you cried as you looked in the mirror, as you took a private moment to adjust to the new you? Or do I simply need to recall the moment you stepped out into the wide open and insisted that we all carry on, but could we please stop to find you a hat or scarf? Do I really need to remember the times when you waited so patiently for the shots that cost thousands of dollars, waited for insurance authorization, with me barely breathing, planning and plotting how we would find you that relief IF the insurance denied the request? Or do I simply need to recall the beauty of your smile and spirit, the halo that seemed to surround you as you sat in the chemotherapy chair, with your pink backpack filled with activities and snacks, waiting as if you were waiting to board an airplane, filled with joyful anticipation and delight...WHO does that? You, that's who!

Allison, can I admit my fear to you, do you understand it? Do you know that I am afraid at times, to be the person I now am, to move in new directions, and to bring to my soul the most positive energy and healing that can be devoured? Do you know that I am afraid to abandon the "old" way of doing things for the "new" way just because I don't know how to go on...do you know that fear can hold me back from who I am supposed to be, what I am supposed to know, and what I am supposed to become? Do you know that most will never understand the place in which I now stand? Most will not comprehend the complexities, the "layers" of grief, and the shedding of the old self? I am no longer who I was, and I don't know how to explain that...do I even need to, and does anyone really need an explanation? I have not moved "past" anything or anyone, but it is all different now. There is no turning back. There is only moving, simply moving, and notice I don't say forward, I just say moving. I am moving, and through the grace of God, and your spirit that guides me, I can honestly say I am a mover and a shaker. I am not still, unless I need to be, to listen, to study, to grasp life, and savor the moment.

Your spirit tells me, not in a morbid way, that there is not much time left on earth, for me, for your family, friends, loved ones. That doesn't mean today, that could mean twenty years, thirty years, or it can mean a day, a month, a year. God gives me today, and together, you and He help me live it. I am praying about my fears, I am asking that each step of the way, as the layers of that "onion" fall off, or get peeled off, that I will have the strength to face the new part, the part of my life that I cannot see, that I will not be afraid, that I will find myself, and I will move in the direction that God desires.

As your scripture states, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me". And in knowing that, how can I be afraid at all, this day, or any other day.

My heart beats faster and faster, in love and in missing you, but knowing you live,
Mom

Sunrise, Sunset

Allie, I know how much you loved the sunrises and sunsets that you were able to see, in Hull, your "happy place", mostly, and in Hawaii, and in the towns and places you visited in between. You didn't get to see enough of them, but what you did for us was leave a new appreciation for them, and in doing so, have taught us how to be still, reflect, savor, and almost devour those things that have become so precious. In honor of what I now see in a sunrise or a sunset, and in honor of you, we have entitled your memorial cookbook just that, "Sunrise, Sunset", and all photos have special significance...some you have seen, some in places you have been, taken in locations where you once stood...not all taken by me, or your dad, but by friends or family...I am posting a few this morning and of course, the one with the brilliant glow of pink was taken by Aunt Karen, pink follows her everywhere she goes, now...and, we are honored that Sherry would allow us to use so many of hers, each one titled for the significance. The one above, and shadowing the words of my words, taken at the bay, you know where it is...it is entitled, "Heaven Is Just Across the Bay"...could she have known how inspiring and magnificent these quick snapshots would become....on the side you see "New Day" (which will grace the cover of the cookbook), "Hull Sunset" and "Allison's Camp"! All of these photos are that link to you, someone she did not know in this lifetime, but most definitely has come to know in your spirit form. It shows how this circle widens and grows and really brings us together in ways we could never know, prescribe, or anticipate. God is wondrous in His works and I am always so ever thankful for that one more sunrise, one more sunset, until it is our time to be together again.

You are my light and an inspiration, Mom

Oh, those signs, they are "real"

Dear Allie, I want you to know that you are all around me this month, this day, this moment. It's not just the promise of spring, the buds on "your" tree about to open, the vibrant colors of hope everywhere we turn, the colors we now wear as the days grow longer, shedding our dark and dreary, for the bright and cheery. It's you. It's the signs. It's the images of your face, the printing of your name, the letter "A", the people you have touched, whether you know it or not, whether they even know it or not. It's the convertible you drove, it's the soccer ball you dribbled down the field, it's the pictures I find, it's the stories others tell me, it's the cookies I bake, it's the cake I make, it's the gifts I wrap for others because you are leading me to bring spring to their souls, it's the donation to your scholarship, it's the cookbook's finishing touches, it's the ground you walked on, and the air you breathed. It's the full moon, and the still of night, it's the warmth in the air, so much so that we can open the windows one minute, only to hurry to close them the next, for the wind shifted, and all of life changed, in an instant. It's the smell of lilac, and the lyrics to an old song, a new song, one I shared, one I wish I could share, with you. It's the way in which you taught me to love a dog, the way in which you showed us how to NOT sweat the small stuff. It's the way in which you liked to be lazy, that could almost drive me crazy! It's the way you could turn to casual, to sparkly and girlish in the blink of an eye! It's your comfortable way with children, with adults, with people. It's your signature smile like the one I posted today, as you clung to your father's arms. It's your emergence from a little baby to amazing woman, so quickly, that I thought I blinked my eye.

It's as though I have to remind myself that you were really here. Yes, I've said it over and over again that I must say out loud that you are really gone. But sometimes, the circumstances are so surreal, that I often wonder, were you really here? Were you, like the girl in the rear view mirror, the one whose eyes penetrated mine, a figment of my imagination, or were you really REAL? Were you, like the words printed on the car next to mine that day when Shawnee and I went to the store, were you real, like them, spelling out your name on the passenger side, written exactly as you would write it, complete with the heart over the i...were you real, or were you a figment of my imagination? Were you really here, like the pink sunset that so many called about on the anniversary of your passing, like the letter "A" in the sky on that significant morning when I took that walk. Were you really here?

I can hear you saying that of course you were real...you were here...as are the signs, the images, the young woman who stopped me at the stop sign to ask if I was Allison's mother...she had read your caringbridge site, and had an interview at your oncologist's office the very day you passed away from us, and the first person she heard about was you...AND she got the job, AND she feels you are her guardian angel. You were real like the young man at the Dierberg's who stopped me and told me I had the nicest, warmest smile, much like that of a young woman he went to Meramec Community College with a few years ago...hmmm...could that have been you? I often wonder. Maybe. Stranger things would and could happen! You were real, and still are. Just different. You are as real as the mother who met me through another young man's caringbridge site, who now mourns her own precious Erin, and who shares her daughter through her own blog, giving us all a chance to know her, no, not in this life, but in her eternal life, her everlasting life. You are as real as the woman who sat over lunch and coffee right here in our home, trying to make sense of how to move, just move, after the death of her daughter to breast cancer. You are real and the signs, the people who have come into my life, the people who have stayed in my life, the circumstances are real, too.

I cannot explain the tightrope I now walk, balancing between real, surreal. Some of this, most of it, seems like a dream, a vision, a spiritual awakening. I see you, I feel you, I know you in new and profound, poignant, ways. It's not what I thought it would be, it's not at all how I envisioned it to be...I am learning, I am seeking, I am trying. I am living. Sometimes through a fog. Sometimes without comprehension of time. Often with a vagueness that tells me something is missing. And always with a heavy heart. Always.

It is March, the signs are real, the promise is real, and there is hope. Thank you for that, love, Mom

Your Beauty

Dear Allison, I want you to know that your beauty surrounds me this day, another glorious day that holds the promise of spring. How easy it is to be motivated by the sunshine, to dig in the dirt (well, I am thinking about it, anyway), to open the window and hear the children playing, the birds singing, and to feel the breeze. I laid down on the reading room couch yesterday afternoon just to savor the moment, you have taught me that I don't know if I will get another chance like this moment holds. I don't know what opportunities await, so I live where I am, wrap myself in your beauty, and hold tight for whatever life brings. And I don't mean your outer beauty, although I must admit, that smile, the turquoise of your eyes, the youthfulness of your skin, the agile body, all hold places for me that inspire and give me a mental image to cling to...yet, here you are now, in spirit form, holding all the colors of the rainbow in one touch, one glance, one beat of my heart.

Color is bursting, and with it, so is my heart. You are living in me, through me, and by me in ways that can never truly be described. The total package of your beauty illuminates my path and inspires with a power that fills me with strength and hope. And you teach me about God's grace, each and every day of my life.

I am understanding the grace which He gives as a gift to all, to me, just for the taking. I read about it, I learn, I understand, but most importantly, I know. And through the pain of recalling the toll of cancer, and all it meant to you and our family, I came to believe in the gift. I saw it firsthand, although at the time, it wasn't as clear as it is now. I was numb. I still am at times. I was naive. I still am at times. I was in shock. And I still am at times. But through it all, there it was, the gift of grace, right before our eyes. And now, I, we, cling to the gift of all gifts, the promise of mercy and hope and faith and trust and love as we put all of ourselves in the hands of God the Father.

I am glad to know He is there, and I am blessed to know you are there. I still don't really know how to live with you in my heart and soul, without you here for your 25th birthday, and I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think ahead, and I still don't know that I want to look backwards at your life. All can be too painful. Too many questions surface and too many fears. Yet, through the pain, I know you had a sweet life, and gave us memories that will last us a lifetime.

Still and all, you are here, there, and everywhere, just as God promised. Just as He is. I will close my message to you this day, my beloved one, with the poem written by James Freeman. He speaks of God's grace, and I cling to its promise. But it also speaks to me about you, as I learn to live with you in the spiritual form, the way you are now, the way you will always be...

"I Am There"

Do you need me? I am there.
You cannot see Me
yet I am the light you see by.
You cannot hear Me,
yet I speak through your voice.
You cannot feel Me,
yet I am the power at work in your hands.

You are all I could ever ask for, and more. God above, and you.

Love, Mom

As March Marches On

Dear Allison, this is "I want you to know" month because it helps me when I know you are my audience, you are listening, knowing, understanding, being there...plus, I have taken to saying out loud, at times, "Allison, I just want you to know"...I want you to know so much. You already do, that's the thing, but it helps me take the steps necessary to live, breathe, act, move, create, and so much more when I can get my words out and let go.

Today I want you to know about yesterday. It is still in my heart. It's when I fell to my knees as I have not done in some time. Perhaps it was prompted by Sarah's birthday, I'm not sure, as you know, there does not have to be a reason. And I now know that. Yet, if I am honest, there is something rather mystical, magical, melancholy and mysterious about the way my spirit flows when it comes to some special occasions, and the one of your dearest friend's birthday, turning 25 without you here, well, that was difficult. Difficult because more surged in me than I thought ever could, again, and still. I have cried a river of tears, been to my knees, and still there is more to come. It happens when your sister, cousins, friends have birthdays, indeed, moments to celebrate and cherish, even more now that we know what we know...still, you are not here and there it comes, that slap to the face kind of reality that while you are gone at 25 years, you should not be...you just should not be.

When the grief rose and took hold in that way, yesterday, I almost went into a panic. Not because I didn't recognize it, I did. I have seen it before. I imagine I will see it again. I found myself going room to room and uncontrollable tears fell down my face, my neck, onto my shirt. And I longed to reach out to talk with someone. I know, there were many people I could call, yet, I couldn't really. Dad was in meetings, this I knew, your aunts were working, my friends were watching their grandchildren or having breakfast out with a friend, and the timing wasn't right to call a soul. At least that's how I thought at the time, and somehow got through the time, and that "somehow" was sitting and breathing and putting all my faith in God above, my constant companion, who never leaves me, and never will.

I found my true source of comfort once again, ready to be called upon, ready to provide just what I needed to find my way. I was at some sort of crossroad and I needed guidance. I let the tears fall, I asked for wisdom, and strength, and even answers and I listened. I recognized the guidance as it resonated throughout my body, mind and soul. I opened my heart to listen. I understood which direction God wanted from me, to move forward with confidence and joyful anticipation. AND I remembered my promise to you, that this month I would live out 25 random acts of kindness. That promise, God's understanding, and your smile brought me through the storm. I lifted my soul, I made some bread, picked up some flowers and cookies, and took all to special souls who are recovering from a traumatic car accident, people who are like family. As "luck" would have it, they were home, and we spent the nicest afternoon together, and talked of all sorts of things, went down memory lane, and we all smiled bigger for our time spent. A delightful day under God's good grace.

I know exactly what it means in the scriptures when it says that God's word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path. That was proven to me yesterday, a grieving mother who thought the day only held tears and pain, turned into an illuminating day filled with hope and promise.

You, dear daughter, I love, Mom

More to Say

Allison, I will never run out of things to say, words to express, songs to sing, verses to memorize, scriptures to refer to, quotes from others, lyrics to songs...all have a definite purpose, now, as it refers to grief and loss, and life and death, and blessings and suffering. It's almost as though the words shared, reflected, sung, quoted have taken on new meaning since you are gone. For that matter, so has every little thing. It's the unexplainable, really, until one really knows how grief stimulates the senses, helps you see and taste and feel like never before. Maybe it's that sense of urgency that now I KNOW full well, firsthand, that life as we know it will change with the ring of the phone. Maybe it's that I was meant to hear things with a new ear, listen with a new heart, feel with senses that now seem more alive in your passage. How can that be? I try not to question, but it IS a mystery...a mystery that may never be solved, so I just look to the heavens and say "thank you God" for making me see...though not in this way, I am thankful to SEE what you perhaps wanted me to see all along.

Lyrics to songs are one thing that I have noticed very intently since you have been gone. You and I shared the same love of music, that is why I know you would have loved an American Idol favorite, Danny Gokey. I have written about him before, last spring when he opened up that voice we love so much, and sang your signature song, MY WISH, at the concert. A chill ran down our spines as Aunt Kathy, Jennifer and I simply held hands and KNEW that the message was clear...you are always with us, and the song, well, it will always hold meaning, not just because you loved it, but you lived it. And Danny is on the scene, now, with his first album. To see him perform last night on the show, along with listening to the lyrics on his album, well, one knows exactly where he is...there is no denying that his words are going to resonate with millions. And he keeps living, as do we all, with a purpose and a will and a desire, because he really doesn't want the loss of his young wife to define him, or at least give him any "excuses" for doing, or not doing, his best. Naturally, the loss cannot help define him, but as he said, and as we have said all along, it's what you do with the loss, how you live on, and bring dignity to the deceased that is the beauty of it all.

There are many artists I could write about, and have. Music will continue to inspire and guide me. It helps me make that connection to you and to live. And when I once thought I would never sing again, I am finding my voice.

The lyrics that sum it up in ways I perhaps could not, from Danny Gokey's song, "My Best Days Are Ahead of Me", are blasting through the house right now, and I might just play it over and over again. I need the upbeat, head shaking, body moving rhythm today as I think of how to live, how to honor you, and as I think of one of your best friends who turns 25 today, who you always celebrated together since you were young girls, and I think how you should be here with her, with them, with me, with us. I cannot deny how much I miss you and don't know how I will carry on...and as another one of his songs clearly states, on the same album, "I Will Not Say Good-bye". Yes, I can relate...to use his words, I will shout, I will cry, I will curse, shake my fist at the sky, but I will not say good-bye. I don't want to feel better, I don't want to NOT remember.

The complexities of the two songs really do sum up grief. The pure and utter devastation makes me want to never forget, to never let you go completely, to stay grounded in the safety of my own presence, yet, as the first song says, there are beaches to walk on, there is air for me to breathe, there are candles on a birthday cake to blow out. There is a future, and thanks to you, and a loving God who keeps me here a bit longer, my best days are ahead of me, too! I have to believe that, and God's promise tells me it is the truth and way and light. I will keep trying and loving you, never to say good-bye, I will witness the sunsets, and the sunrises, and I will know you have opened up a whole new world that I would have never seen. You are granting ME the birthday wishes, now, all my love, your mom

Allison...There's So Much To Tell You

Dear Allison, I want you to know so much that my heart and soul feels as though it will burst unless I let it out, share, write, laugh, cry, whatever is necessary to release this giant that grows inside of me, this giant called grief. It rises up and explodes at times I would least expect, and other times, it lies dormant, just waiting for the ebb and flow to release it, to endure it, to live with it. Are there really any words to describe it? Can one really explain it? Should one even try? Questions with no answers. That has become my life. Sometimes words with no meaning. And sometimes no meaning with words. I stop mid-sentence as if I have forgotten the complete train of thought...some would say that is NOT grief, but middle age and post-menopause! I would agree, I know many who grapple with the same symptom, and they are not in the trenches of grief. I know not how to answer the questions that some ask, and yet I don't want them to stop asking. I find them curious, yet, not wanting to know, really. As my friend, Cathy, has said, before, and since losing her son, this is a "club" no one wants to join or become a member of...it's not of our own choosing, yet here it is. It is ours, this is mine, and as I have said so often, I own it.

But in doing so, by "owning it", that doesn't mean I want to go it alone. Of course, I could not. First and foremost, God is my way of hope and light. I want to shout to Him, "I hear you, God, I am getting it, I am learning, I am reading your word, I am asking you for guidance at every turn". Allison, I am fully aware that without His grace and mercy I would not be where I am today. I am grateful for the time spent in getting to know Him all of my life, but more specifically after your grandmother passed. He provided that sweet assurance of life after death and I learned a little more about time and how it will be my time to meet Him, and how I want to be ready. I had no idea that you would go before me, how could I? It's the unthinkable. But in doing so, I found I had to really buckle down and open my heart and comprehend this thing called life, not the here and now, but the eternal and spirit life that comes after this brief stop we are making now. It should be simple, but it is not, because we, as people and humans, put the mark on what should be, what will be, we think we have control, and that we can orchestrate or undermine our own circumstances. But one day, something happens and there it is, all laid out before you, me, us, that this is our stopover and our true life begins when we meet our maker.

Of course, I didn't come to that overnight! My spiritual journey is my primary focus now. I ask God for help at every turn. And I did long before this part of my journey, just not as often, as deeply, and I didn't sit still and savor, cherish, and listen as intently to the answers. But I surely do, now, and will, and to anyone who wants the same strength, I can honestly say, God's grace is why I am upright and standing tall, making room in my heart for all things, all people.

Then there is you, my sweetness, my light, my source of strength, second to God above. You provide me the gift of grace in a different way. You provide me the endurance and the hope and the faith it takes to live the day and rejoice in it. God has made it beautiful, but you have added meaning. You taught me to look around at the orange glow this morning, you gave me the strength to retire and look around. I was scared. You know that. Teaching and working in the schools was all I knew to do, and I loved it. What was I to do with a whole day looming, especially when there was so little light and my world was shattered? You give me guidance, I live to please and honor a loving God, you, your sister, your father, myself, and the list goes on. I am patient in the promise that we will be reunited under heaven, patient, yet pained, because the complexity of it is I miss your sweet face. I want to hold your hand and walk across the street, and shop and go to your favorite restaurant, Lord knows how you loved to eat! I want to listen to your favorite songs that quickly became mine, I want you to meet Rex, I want you to grow old with your sister, so that you can be like Aunt Karen and me, a bond that is deeper than any words can describe. But none of that is to be, so I work toward acceptance, and I pray for God to help me find comfort and peace. I say out loud, so often, "she is not coming back", and I have to confirm and affirm that fact. I will no longer know you in the physical sense. I will not hear your voice. I will only know you in spirit, and that takes time, that takes patience and perseverance.

I know this is long, this day, Allison, but my heart is beating so fast...so much whirling, so much to sort through and even grapple with....so much pain, yet so much joy....a former colleague said to me last week, "well, at least you had her for 21 years, my sister only had her child for 10 years"....I mention this because it has been said to me before. And it is relevant today, this month, every day, because of your birthday month, because loss never leaves, and one cannot compare. Grief is grief. No, I don't want to be the mother whose child is murdered, or missing, or took their own life, or who knew their baby for a day, or two, or three, or two years. I don't want to be them. They don't want to be me. We can never, and should never, compare. Does that make my pain less than a mother who lost her child at ten years of age? Does that diminish another mother's grief because she didn't have to watch her child "suffer"? Comparisons cannot be made. This is not a race. It is what it is, as harsh as that may sound. This is MY burden, MY walk, MY journey, MY grief, MY pain, yet, it is MY faith, MY hope, MY family, MY heart, MY God that will bring me through. And because it is difficult for many to even think about, let alone talk about, without making it about them, I usually just do not even try. That is why I write, that is why I need to do what works for me, for my family, for my daughter, husband, siblings, family, friends. That is why I am chosen to know what I know. And the greatest thing that I do know, is that while I may not sit and talk with others (although I have honestly tried) it is God who has been my constant companion. Not the friend who runs into me for the first time in three years and tells me how great I look, not the friend who tries to tell me that the type of cancer you had is just like her uncle who smoked all his life, not the friend who calls to let me know that we are expected at their child's wedding because it is time for us to get out and socialize, not the friend who calls to let me know it is not healthy to be alone during the day like I am, that perhaps I should get a job. My list is endless. And to them I always politely say, you don't know, and I pray to God you never know what this is like, so perhaps it is best that you not share an opinion. I do say that. Because I must. And when they ask me how I do it, my response is always the same. God is my constant companion, my co-pilot, my strength, my rock. And if they don't understand, I don't mind. I don't expect them to, unless they know Him as I do.

I must close, my dearest. This letter writing is helpful to me these days, as the sun appears more, and we draw one day closer to your birthday, of course you were born on the threshold of spring, new birth, and new light, hope, and promises. I love you, my darling daughter, Mom

Your Presence

Allison, this day your presence is profound. You have spurred me to add touches of pink and turquoise in the house, in my life, as I anticipate the spring and rebirth. You know I always liked to put out my Easter or spring "things", but now, with time and reflection, I can help create the surroundings that I desire. There are touches of you and our life together, as a family, as mother and daughter, as sister to sister, and as father to child all around. Some are so subtle that no one would notice, no, there is no shrine, there are no burning candles round the clock, but there are those significant, and even strategically placed sources of strength and energy, sending out light and hope and love. I won't say they are all I have now, of you, because that is not true. You reside in my heart, your spirit permeates and spreads through our lives and the lives of so many, but still, the tangible helps me. So, when I sit down to read or play with Rex, or serve dinner to your dad or Jen, or guests, or prepare a room for visitors, or create the place where those who desire can stop off for tea, wine or whatever is needed at the time, when I do all these things and live my life, there you are, in a new and rare form.

We all have our ways of dealing with pain and loss. And reason has little to do with how we cope. We no longer need a reason. Did you know that is one beauty of this journey, I no longer need a reason, excuse or pardon. Perhaps I never did. I just thought I did. Society thought I did. My mother taught me that I did. But I don't. You have taught me that. I have entered a new realm.

Today, I don't need a reason, but my heart has mixed feelings. Yes, it's your grandmother's birthday, how old would she be...let's see....she left at 62 years of age, and has been gone 15 years...so today, she would be 77 years. I often wonder, as I do about you, what would she have been like? Where would the journey take her? She seemed so young to leave us, we still needed her, wanted her here, wanted her to see our children grow up and share the experiences. We wanted to turn to her for wisdom and strength and many times I wanted to laugh with her, cry with her. But I learned something about grief in that intense loss, and unknown to me, the experience would prepare me for so much more, such intense grief that I feel ripped to shreds on the inside. You. You are gone. She is gone. But not really. When those who care try to explain about the deceased living on in our hearts, I wasn't sure what they meant, but now I know. Your presence, her presence, is almost more profound than if you had lived.

I know you and my mother have found one another. God gave me the gift of knowing that before you left. Remember that Sunday when you saw her in the room, and I thought you were confused? Just two days before you took your last breath in my arms, you asked me why Grandma was behind me in your hospital room. I thought at first that you were confused, then I realized that not only were you NOT confused, that she WAS in the room, and her spirit was leading you HOME. I also realized, then, that your time with Dad, Jennifer and me was limited. And I realized so much more. I realized that all I believed and hoped for about heaven and God's promise was true, that He does provide grace and mercy when you follow and trust and cling to faith. I realized that He takes care of all of His children, and that I was His child, too, even though I am grown. I realized that no earthly thing can satisfy me and make me whole, that it is the Lord above who had set eternity within my heart.

It's a day for blessings and hope and faith. Your presence surrounds me, in the physical and tangible, but more than that, for eternity, your presence resides in me. Memories of my mother surface and I miss her. I miss what was and what would have been. Perhaps I will walk down Main Street St. Charles later, a favorite past time of mine and hers, perhaps I will just read and pray, or maybe I will bake, another of her favorite pasttimes. Bake for someone who would love to have some chocolate cake or homemade cookies. I will do what I always do, live to honor, thank God for this day, and make the best of it, my way, which is really God's way.

Your Uncomplaining Ways

Allison, I think I will also write a little bit each day through this month of spring and eternal hope, your birthday month, yet, so much more. I know it will help me in my release and purpose of staying focused and strong. Writing is my release, necessary to me as prayer time, devotions, affirmations, talking silently to God, shouting out to Him, asking for coverage and care through every step. I am still learning so much, and I suppose that is what it is all about.

This morning I thought of what I would term your "uncomplaining ways". It came to me early this morning as I found strength and comfort in your ways, your dignity, your grace. As I praised God for the blessings He has bestowed, one constant always stands out, "thank you, God, for creating Allison as you did, thank you for her life, for allowing me to be her mother, for all creatures, but for her and her spirit, and for allowing her to know you so intimately, so that all fear and pain was given back to you to bear, which you did, for her". I praised and thanked Him for so many other things, of course, but it stood out for me as I thought of your spirit and life, that while it was taken way too soon, cut way too short, that it pains my heart and soul with every breath, that there is a purpose and He allowed us to know you. Which made me think of you and how you lived, through the good times and the bad, through the day of receiving a cancer diagnosis, to the day you accepted that you were meant for a different type of life. Through your days as a child, a baby born with a smile on her face, a woman who died with a peace and contentment that only came from the love you knew from your family and friends, and a love and belief that God will handle it all. I have to believe that kind of faith and love is what inspired you all along, long before the days of your biggest challenge and fight, long before you ever dreamed YOU would face lung cancer, let alone lose your physical life as a result. I know in my heart what drove you, what centered you, what kept you focused, and enabled you to stay the course and never complain.

Sure, you had your tears, frustrations, angers, fears....you had your questions, your doubts, your misgivings, and you stood in awe of this diagnosis, this challenge, the treatments and the toll they took. You cried, you prayed, you shouted, but you didn't complain. You accepted. You lived. Your physical body died, but you did not. I read a quote, and I wish I could say by whom, that "you are not dead until the last person that knew you has died". Now, isn't that something to contemplate?! I know what that says to me, you will never die, indeed, my child, you will never die.

This day, every day, you and your "uncomplaining ways" drive me to stay the course, too, to breathe in, breathe out, to find something beautiful in the moment, to have patience, to be thankful for the place I am in at this moment, knowing all could change with the shift of the wind, to affirm and know through faith I am steady and strong. God's power is greater than any circumstance we might face. I knew that before, but I know it at a deeper level now. Thanks to you and God's plan.

My love is endless, Mom

Allie, I Want You To Know

Allie, I want you to know...it is March, your month, not just because of your birthday, but because of the promise of spring and the light of brighter days and spirits. I am going to embrace it, at least I am going to try. I want you to know that this is a very difficult birthday, do I have to have a reason? Can't it just be so? I will miss seeing you turn 25 years old, and I have mixed emotions about that. While I find comfort in knowing your spirit soars and teaches and guides, I so desperately want to see what you would become. I am watching your sister evolve, your friends, and their friends, and I stand in disbelief that you are gone, and they are here, some getting married, some having babies, some drifting, some taking the reins of their own lives, some venturing out, through travel or apartments or even new homes. Can I tell you that I honestly feel "jipped" at times? I want to know you at 25, I want to celebrate you, I want to touch you, God knows that I just want to see you and what you would be...but that is not meant to be. So, when the moments come that bring me to my knees, I cry, I cling to family and friends who never cease to support me, and I make good on my promise to you, or at least try to, to make you proud, to lead the way for all the mourning souls, to provide hope, and faith and love in a world that is dark and restless when we lose our child, or our loved ones.

I want you to know that I want to shout from the rooftops, sometimes, that this is the hardest, most difficult damn thing I have ever done, face a day, a month, a birthday, a lifetime without you. It never gets easier, Allison. It gets different, that's all. With all the spring colors and delights of a new season, there is still that side that plagues me. Even with the delivery of Girl Scout cookies, there you are. Here come the Easter baskets, and the candy, and the array of orange, turquoise, greens and pinks, everywhere you go now. And honestly, one minute it can make me abandon my cart and leave the store, knowing the emotion is coming, and the next, it can wrap around me and bring a smile to my heart that is so big and bold that I know I am going to be okay. But then I turn that corner, and there is another reminder, and another and another....no wonder it is so exhausting just to go to the store! But I will, and I do, and your big smile leads me and takes care of me like nothing else could ever do. You are pushing me, Allison, I know it, and I am grateful. But I am also tired. I can feel like skipping, and in a second that feeling is gone, and I want to retreat. How does one explain this incredible loss, this pain, this fatigue and emotional draining?

I do want you to know that your birthday has spurred me to take action. Your smile brings light to my soul and spirit and I believe you want that smile to be spread. I try, always, to take that smile other places by doing what I can, when I can, for your family, friends and loved ones...and even strangers. So, for your 25th birthday, I am going to keep a log of 25 random acts of kindness in March, mostly for people I don't know that well, so that your legacy and smile just keeps lighting the way. I don't care that they know who did it, or what it was all about, sometimes, most times, anonymous givings are the best anyway. I will keep paying it forward in your memory, with a more concentrated effort this month. This will help me stay focused on what I do have, what I can offer, and not on what, who, is missing from my grasp. I will also make sure I walk a total of 25 miles in March. This may not seem like much, but it is my pledge and my start to movement in the way I need to move. I will give birthday presents out and I will celebrate life in a way that is pleasing to God, and to you. I will use my resources well, and give back in a way that will make the world light up. I have no idea what it will be, or to whom, but I trust that God will put those people in front of me, and in my spirit, and I will just know.

Allie, I want you to know that I will keep searching for ways to honor you, putting God first, and asking Him for guidance. I will never stop living for you. Living better and stronger. I will never stop being all I can be for Jennifer and your father and myself. I will hold God true to His promise of that sweet reunion when it is my time, our time, to see you again. It will be sweet. It will be better than a birthday party, and taste more delicious than your favorite cake! Until then, though, I must find my way.

It is important for me to stay in touch with you, as if I would ever stop. My blog, my journals, my commitments help me stay on track. I do falter. You know that. But I will never get completely off track, this I know. You are my child for eternity, and in that, we never leave each other, rather, we grow closer and closer, through spirit and our love and our connection. As my hand was placed over your heart, and your hand placed over mine, when you took that final breath, we are entwined and now breathe as one. The very life of each of us was poured into one another's souls, yours to be released too early for my liking, mine to live on with a purpose I am still trying to discover. But I am patient, too much so, some might say! I will live and wait and take my cues from all that God lays before me.

Allie, my heart holds so many complexities, yet, is filled with so much love that I must share with you. You are my light, you are a source of strength for your sister and others, and your birthday month is going to be one celebration, silent perhaps, but we will know, you will know, that your smile helps us pay it forward and seize the day.

Eternal love, Mom