In the months following my mom’s passing last year, I barely noticed that autumn had set in. Self proclaimed as fall’s biggest fan, I uncharacteristically felt zero desire to dig out my fall decor or visit the pumpkin patch.
But then I found myself in a cardiologist’s office a few months later, as the New Year took hold. I explained that mom had died of cardiac arrest, so I was extra concerned about some heart palpations I was experiencing. The kind doctor humored me and ran a full battery of tests. At the end, he found nothing concerning. With a soft smile, he said ‘Sometimes sadness makes our heart palpitate.’ He prescribed exercise. Like weight lifting. And walks.
Ever the rule follower, I diligently started with the walks. Mostly because it sounded easier.
I walked in the chill of March, grumbling all the way. Just around a block or two. When March gave way to April, I walked in the drizzly rain. In May I watched the neighborhood show its flowery splendor and added a few more blocks to my route.
Summer brought its normal heatwave. Humidity has long been my nemesis but suddenly – surprisingly – I was looking forward to my daily walk. After work, bone tired and hungry, I’d quickly change clothes and set out on the pavement.
On those walks, I observed neighbors and got to know their pets. I’d wave at kiddos on bikes and note exterior paint colors I liked. I hummed along to the music radiating in my ears, 90’s hits alternating with worship songs. I swatted at flies and wiped away sweat. I felt my heart pound and my breath quicken. I upgraded my shoes, picked up the pace and pushed the route even farther.
My walks were mobile therapy sessions. My mind would roll through the years of my life and pluck out memories to process. I wrestled with sadness, regret, longing and disappointment as my feet followed the sidewalk. Tears would often dry to my cheeks, my sunglasses hiding my damp eyelashes. I asked all the questions floating around my heart, but usually came up with no answers. I prayed – laying my praise and gratitude, repentance and pleas at His feet. Sometimes I railed at my God in anger and disbelief, as the lingering grief overwhelmed me. He was always kind and steady, listening intently and never failing to respond with gentle understanding. The cracked concrete serving as holy ground, I fell in love with my Lord all over again while I trailed one block after another.
The walks were a benefit to my body, for sure. The sun left tan lines on my normally fair skin, calling freckles to the surface. The frightening palpitations ceased and gave way to more energy. I slept better at night. And more than fifty pounds dropped from my frame. I felt much stronger and more agile. But the benefits were far more important to my spirit. Each walk offered an ironic solitude that felt like a safe cocoon. I walked in broad daylight, passing by dozens of homes with families inside, but I felt invisible as I retreated into the quiet of my thoughts. Some walks were slower, dragged down by the heavy boulders of emotions ping-ponging around my brain. Other times, my pace clipped along as though I were a renegade. The tempo of my strides mattered very little. It was just that I walked at all that was paramount. The simple sway of my arms as my legs carried me up and down the streets was enough to start patching up the shards that mom’s death had left behind. Step by step, the cadence of each walk helped me to feel more restored.
I found myself craving my daily walks. Almost a year later, I still do.
And when the autumn took hold again this year, I noticed. The crunchy leaves under my shoes and soft breeze on my neck beckoned my eyes upward. I took in the tall trees in the colors of jewels. My mind’s eye quickly flashed to decorations my mother would adorn her home with, creating the coziest of scenes. She did the fall season so, so well.
The silly little walks I complied with, begrudgingly, helped me to fall in love with autumn and all its God-authored promises again. They invaded the massive crater that had formed in mom’s absence, sealing up the fissures and stabilizing the fragile foundation. That cardiologist did so much more than he intended with his prescription.
He saved my broken heart.
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One week after mom’s passing, I submitted an essay for publication in a book being compiled by my favorite website, Her View From Home. Tyndale House was publishing it. A real, legit book.
My submission was more an outpouring of my broken heart than anything else. I hit send, fully expecting that the fruit would be less about being selected for the book, and more a cathartic exercise for my shattered spirit.
Stunningly, they accepted that submission. It’s been the most beautiful blooms to come from the wretched ashes of the days that have ticked by since I lost mom. The book, So God Made A Mother, is a precious collection of the never-ending emotions found in the motherhood experience. If you’re a mother, or have been mothered, you’ll find yourself in the pages.
To purchase the book, click here. You won’t regret it for a second.
Speaking of mothers, my sweet and very talented friend, Stevie, creates the most fantastic coloring pages. She just gives them away, which is absolutely shocking, and they’ll help heal the tattered parts of you in the best way possible. Truly.
Stevie has created a collection of new pages in anticipation of Mother’s Day and my piece in So God Made A Mother served as inspiraton for one of them. It’s just so lovely.
Take a peek:
To download that beautiful page, and a variety of others, you can click here. Enjoy, dear ones.