To my mom, February 5

Thursday, February 5, 1981

          The days seem so long and dreary—and of course the cold, gloomy weather doesn't make it any better. I wish you were here right now, at least I'd have you to do things for—but, I have to be patient … good things take time…

Thursday, February 5, 2026

          Long and dreary. Or fleeting and aimless? I'm not sure which of the two I'm experiencing more. And we both know it's not entirely true: how we perceive things and the way they really are. I wish we were better at discerning between the two, then maybe we'd move through life as God intends: with more grace and understanding.
          Other than that, I'm almost at a loss to respond to your second sentence there … I know having you here right now would not make things better, as I've plenty to do already. I believe you knew that, too, at the end, and that's why you were resigned to the end rather than prolong an undesirable and unpleasant existence. We have to be patient, too, sometimes. But we also need to know when to act. It's a scary place to be caught between stillness and action and being unable to commit. That's ultimately the lesson I pray I take from your example. 

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

To my mom, February 1

Sunday, February 1, 1981

          I will begin work on the curtains for your room soon, don't have a whole lot of time left, ya know! My! but you've been active today, I've got this awful ache in my right side. Oh well, a little pain for a lot of joy—I guess I can endure.

Sunday, February 1, 2026

          And endure you did. But only so much as was reasonable in the end. Ten or twenty more years of life in that state would have hardly been a life at all. That awful ache in your side born of a rolled ankle, imbalance issues, what your doctors termed "spinal stenosis," and ultimately your failing psyche made it hard to stay active.

          My God! Ya know, it wasn't until the final month that we realized how little time you had left. And as the curtain closes on that stage of our lives, we're all—me, Yume, Ewan, Paige, and not least of all Dad—now working on the next stage. A stage we explore now without you.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

To my mom, January 29

Thursday, January 29, 1981

          You are very special you know that!?? God has created another of His many miracles in creating you—you are so loved … just wanted you to know. :D

Thursday, January 29, 2026

          It's a special thing you did to write all this to your then unborn baby. God created us to share opportunities and experiences with each other. I don't know if we shared all the ones that we could have if things had been different, but I feel grateful and blessed for the ones we did share.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.