Faith Leads the Way Home

The Last Time You Stroked My Hair

Today is another anniversary of your death.

It was Labor Day that year as well. September 3, 1984.

So many years have passed without a mother. Without you.

So many years since I looked into your eyes and felt your hand stroking my hair.

Actually, the last time you stroked my hair was the day before you died.

I only remembered that a few years ago.

Funny how we can forget moments that later become some of the most important memories of our lives.

On Saturday, you came home from the hospital. I remember thinking how crazy that was given how ill you were. I remember sitting in the family room with your doctor that day. He explained that there wasn’t anything else he could do and that you wanted to go home.

What was left unsaid was that you wanted to go home to die.

I was furious.

Angry at him.

Angry at you.

I felt like you were giving up, giving in, ending the fight.

But the truth is, the fight had ended long before that day.

A Twenty-Year-Old Daughter

I was twenty years old.

An angry young woman who wanted to be normal.

I didn’t want to deal with this. I didn’t want to face living the rest of my life without you. I didn’t want to accept that my mother—my beautiful, brown-haired, ponytail-wearing, basketball-playing mother—was dying.

I wanted to run away.

So I did.

I spent the day at my girlfriend’s house trying to outrun what was happening.

But Sunday morning I had to come home to be with you while Dad went to work.

I walked into your room and immediately felt the anger rise up again.

I’d like to say that seeing you made it disappear.

It didn’t.

Our Goodbye

It was still early, so I climbed onto the bed beside you.

I wanted to be close enough to hear you if you needed anything.

Of course, I fell asleep.

I woke up to your hand moving gently through my hair.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

The way only a mother can touch her child.

It felt as though every stroke was washing away the anger, the pain, the guilt, and the grief.

I kept my eyes closed.

Pretending to sleep.

Pretending I was a little girl again.

A little girl whose mother could make everything feel okay simply by stroking her hair.

Pretending I had never been angry.

Pretending I had never run away.

Pretending you weren’t dying.

For those few moments, we were simply mother and daughter again.

A mother, mothering her child.

And then I opened my eyes.

Your big brown eyes were staring into mine as your hand continued moving through my hair.

We smiled at each other.

It felt as though we were the only two people left in the world, living together on some private island where nothing else existed.

For one brief moment, everything was okay.

And then, the next day, you slipped away.

For years I carried a strange regret.

I wished I had kept my eyes closed longer.

If I’d only known that was the last time you would ever stroke my hair, I would have stayed there forever.

Or at least for a little while longer.

The Gift I Could Not See Then

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.

In truth, I think of you often, but there are seasons when you feel especially close.

The last few weeks have been one of those seasons.

As a more mature woman, I see that moment differently now.

What I once experienced as a painful memory, I now recognize as a gift.

That morning wasn’t simply a mother comforting her daughter.

It was our goodbye.

No dramatic speeches.

No final wisdom.

No perfect ending.

Just your hand in my hair.

Your eyes meeting mine.

Your love saying everything that words could never hold.

It remains one of the greatest gifts of my life.

Remembering in Africa

Years later, sitting in Africa with the lions, I felt you again.

I was surrounded by a group of women, a white lioness, and her daughter.

As the lions purred and growled, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

And I remembered.

The sound of their voices moved through my body like something ancient awakening.

As their growls filled my bones, I remembered who I came here to be.

I remembered my inner lioness.

I remembered my lineage.

I remembered that we are all connected, all part of something far greater than ourselves.

And I remembered you.

I remembered you telling me I was special.

I remembered the stories you shared.

I remembered the way you encouraged me to trust what I knew deep inside, even when you weren’t always sure what to do with it yourself.

Finding My Way Home

Thank you for being brave enough to tell me that I came from the Star People, even though I know it frightened you.

Thank you for planting seeds you may never have fully understood.

Thank you for loving me the way you did.

And thank you for that final morning.

For your hand in my hair.

For your eyes meeting mine.

For a goodbye that took me years to understand.

Most of all, thank you for helping me find my way home.

Faith leads the way home.

And somehow, all these years later, so do you.

Faith Leads the Way Home

The Last Time You Stroked My Hair

Today is another anniversary of your death.

It was Labor Day that year as well. September 3, 1984.

So many years have passed without a mother. Without you.

So many years since I looked into your eyes and felt your hand stroking my hair.

Actually, the last time you stroked my hair was the day before you died.

I only remembered that a few years ago.

Funny how we can forget moments that later become some of the most important memories of our lives.

On Saturday, you came home from the hospital. I remember thinking how crazy that was given how ill you were. I remember sitting in the family room with your doctor that day. He explained that there wasn’t anything else he could do and that you wanted to go home.

What was left unsaid was that you wanted to go home to die.

I was furious.

Angry at him.

Angry at you.

I felt like you were giving up, giving in, ending the fight.

But the truth is, the fight had ended long before that day.

A Twenty-Year-Old Daughter

I was twenty years old.

An angry young woman who wanted to be normal.

I didn’t want to deal with this. I didn’t want to face living the rest of my life without you. I didn’t want to accept that my mother—my beautiful, brown-haired, ponytail-wearing, basketball-playing mother—was dying.

I wanted to run away.

So I did.

I spent the day at my girlfriend’s house trying to outrun what was happening.

But Sunday morning I had to come home to be with you while Dad went to work.

I walked into your room and immediately felt the anger rise up again.

I’d like to say that seeing you made it disappear.

It didn’t.

Our Goodbye

It was still early, so I climbed onto the bed beside you.

I wanted to be close enough to hear you if you needed anything.

Of course, I fell asleep.

I woke up to your hand moving gently through my hair.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

The way only a mother can touch her child.

It felt as though every stroke was washing away the anger, the pain, the guilt, and the grief.

I kept my eyes closed.

Pretending to sleep.

Pretending I was a little girl again.

A little girl whose mother could make everything feel okay simply by stroking her hair.

Pretending I had never been angry.

Pretending I had never run away.

Pretending you weren’t dying.

For those few moments, we were simply mother and daughter again.

A mother, mothering her child.

And then I opened my eyes.

Your big brown eyes were staring into mine as your hand continued moving through my hair.

We smiled at each other.

It felt as though we were the only two people left in the world, living together on some private island where nothing else existed.

For one brief moment, everything was okay.

And then, the next day, you slipped away.

For years I carried a strange regret.

I wished I had kept my eyes closed longer.

If I’d only known that was the last time you would ever stroke my hair, I would have stayed there forever.

Or at least for a little while longer.

The Gift I Could Not See Then

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.

In truth, I think of you often, but there are seasons when you feel especially close.

The last few weeks have been one of those seasons.

As a more mature woman, I see that moment differently now.

What I once experienced as a painful memory, I now recognize as a gift.

That morning wasn’t simply a mother comforting her daughter.

It was our goodbye.

No dramatic speeches.

No final wisdom.

No perfect ending.

Just your hand in my hair.

Your eyes meeting mine.

Your love saying everything that words could never hold.

It remains one of the greatest gifts of my life.

Remembering in Africa

Years later, sitting in Africa with the lions, I felt you again.

I was surrounded by a group of women, a white lioness, and her daughter.

As the lions purred and growled, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

And I remembered.

The sound of their voices moved through my body like something ancient awakening.

As their growls filled my bones, I remembered who I came here to be.

I remembered my inner lioness.

I remembered my lineage.

I remembered that we are all connected, all part of something far greater than ourselves.

And I remembered you.

I remembered you telling me I was special.

I remembered the stories you shared.

I remembered the way you encouraged me to trust what I knew deep inside, even when you weren’t always sure what to do with it yourself.

Finding My Way Home

Thank you for being brave enough to tell me that I came from the Star People, even though I know it frightened you.

Thank you for planting seeds you may never have fully understood.

Thank you for loving me the way you did.

And thank you for that final morning.

For your hand in my hair.

For your eyes meeting mine.

For a goodbye that took me years to understand.

Most of all, thank you for helping me find my way home.

Faith leads the way home.

And somehow, all these years later, so do you.