Eight months ago we all held Mama and cried out for Jesus to come and lead her home.
Thank God she’s home, but I miss her every day.
Today I’m doing something she would do: mending fence.
I’m not great at it, but I can pound away at a fencing staple without busting any thumbs.
Pounding out the staples, pounding through the grief, feels good to the ache in my heart.
I picture Mama, young and strong. Her long dark hair is pulled back with a claw clip, furrowed brow on tan skin, gritted teeth, she swings away at a fence post. In my memory she’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. She has one of those aprons from Scotty’s to hold her staples. My dad is there, too, as they always were — together — building a cow pen and repairing fence.
As I continue pounding away, tears blur my vision making it harder to hit my mark. It dawns on me that I never heard Mama complain about hard work. If anything, she complained that she couldn’t do the hard work when her body failed her. She never was one to shy away from hard things.
As I hammer on another realization strikes. While my mind still replays her final hours almost every single day, a new, old scene plays, today, too. A happy, treasured image of her, hammer in hand, had resurfaced from childhood days. I draw the memory closer before letting out a long, deep sigh, and I smile.
I mend fence while God mends my heart. The days mark the passage of time, but time doesn’t heal all wounds. The long ache lingers, and grief seems to grow. Yes, seeds sown in deep darkness, watered with tears, sprout and burst forth. Beauty, hope, light and life are among its fruit. Uncertain days stretch out on the horizon, but the furrowed soil in my heart knows the Sower never wastes a tear. Joy and sorrow shake hands and make peace.
I look down at the hammer in my hand and give God thanks for my Mama who taught me I can do hard things.
Thank You, God, for Your love that endures every hard thing.
