You’ve been on my mind a lot. Some days, I forget you’re gone. I’ll be driving down the road, think of something, and reach for my phone to call you. Then I remember.
I’ve remembered a lot this week.
It’s now been two years since you died, and it still breaks my heart. It was just too soon. I wasn’t ready for you not to be in my life.
I’m a mama now, and you were supposed to be here for that. You were supposed to be the one I called every day to report how tired I was or how many times Asher smiled. (The report would have been, “I’m very tired, and I lost count of how many times he smiled, so I don’t care that I’m tired.”) You were supposed to give me advice on how to take care of Asher. Most of it would have probably gone against half of what the pediatrician said, but you would have told me that it worked for your babies and your grandbabies, so it will work for my baby. You were supposed to be here on my hardest days as a mama to tell me you’re proud of me and everything would be OK.
Sometimes, I feel sad for Asher because he doesn’t get to grow up with you in his life. You made my life so much better, and I want that for him as well. Then, I hear your voice from long ago.
I was an awkward teenager. In a world filled with beautiful people (my own mother was literally a model), I felt ugly. Then, I got contacts. Green ones. People complimented me regularly on my bright green eyes, and they made me feel just a little bit pretty.
You didn’t like them. You didn’t think I needed them. For years, you asked me to go back to clear contacts. Finally, you told me why: “You have my eyes.”
When we learned about genetics in high school, I mourned (dramatically) the fact that I didn’t have brown eyes like my parents (after I was confused about genetics and for about 10 minutes thought I was adopted or switched at birth). You replied, “I’ve always liked that you have my eyes.”
Any time I would say, “I wish I looked like so and so,” you would say, “But you have my eyes, and I like that.”
I like that, too.
I hope when Asher looks into my eyes, he’ll be able to see you.
When I peel an apple for him and hand it to him with a smile, I hope he’ll see you.
When we bake a cake together and I hand him chocolate covered spoons, I hope he’ll see you.
When he’s angry and ready to stomp off and I blow raspberries at him to make him laugh, I hope he’ll see you.
When he’s sad and comes to me for comfort, I hope he’ll see you.
When he earns a good grade at school and looks to me for affirmation, I hope he’ll see you.
When he seeks me out to share in his joy, I hope he’ll see you.
When he looks at me with his big, goofy grin and I can’t help but smile back at him, I hope he’ll see you.
And when he sees you in me, I hope he also sees Christ, because that’s who you taught me to see when I looked at you.
Thank you for pointing me to Him. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for giving me your eyes.
I love you, Grandmama.