Death brings to close many things including our ability to communicate with one who has been a constant companion. And like placing a call never returned, I think the silence on the other end increases the need to share on this side. The pressure of my words only grows as I begin sifting through treasures left behind. As Maggie’s 21^st birthday dawns without her to absorb the celebration, I find myself composing a message for her. I’ll share it, not in expectation she’ll read it – busy with the glories of heaven and all – but because I need the relief from its weight. You see, no matter how much I know she belongs there, I long to tell her I still feel like your mom.

Maggie turns 2

Maggie, Happy 21^st birthday. You’ll laugh when you hear what I did this morning. I pulled your baby album out – the one in which I filled the writing prompts with what the world was like the day you were born, resulting in more references to Leonardo DiCaprio than you (as you claimed, mostly to embellish the guilt trip you sent my way from perceived neglect due to second child status). I wanted to check the exact time you were born – 3:34 pm on Thursday, May 28, 1998 – because I never can remember the time – in your eyes exhibit #2 of second child’s neglected status since you think I remember Molly’s birth time. (I don’t. At least not exactly). You seemed slighted when the subject came up and never quite accepting of my explanation that it had more to do with the pain she caused and the ease with which you exited the womb and entered my heart. You never quite bought that line, but it’s true. Everything about your life – start, middle, end – was bathed in sunshine. We started calling you Buttercup for that reason. So, don’t feel slighted that the particulars of the event seem hazy – that happens with facts – the joy experienced is as fresh today as then. I always did and still do feel like your mom.

You’ll also be satisfied to know I wasn’t happy for the break from your usual pre-birthday build-up. You know you always started planning the next birthday blowout on the ride home or during cleaning from the most recent one. And I would announce a moratorium on those plans for half a year. I needed time to recover, I said, so no reminders, no guest lists, no event locations, no gift ideas, no cake colors, no party themes for at least six months, preferably nine. Oh girl, how I wish you had been able to whisper your party ideas throughout this past year. We would have planned a monster bash. And I’m not even thankful for a break from rushing around to fill a basket with gifts worthy of your wishes. I’d gladly wear Amazon Prime out in free 2-day gift fulfillment if you were here to celebrate this step into adulthood. I will order a cookie cake (your favorite) and light a candle to remember and dream of what might have been your best party yet (on earth). Just because I still feel like your mom.

While I have your attention, I’ll point out a few other routines (not that your birthday was ever routine, at least not any more than Molly’s, dear second born) that miss your sunshiny presence. I haven’t written any more parody songs since you left. The goofy but original lyrics we would sing to the tune of a real song? I guess you were my muse for those because they’ve stopped flowing. I haven’t felt inspiration to add to our ever-expanding catalog of semi-snarky, slightly jaded, usually funny songs about life as we saw it. And truth be told, I probably wrote to cheer you up or make you laugh. Since you have no need of cheering in the place of eternal light, I may not write another. I feel a little like Rogers who lost his Hammerstein after finishing Edelweiss (no comparison to level of talent intended). The best has been written. But one day I may write another, and I’ll share it with you if I do. After all, I still feel like your mom.

Maggie’s favorite Tervis

It is surprising that another routine I miss are your late-night texts pulling me from sleep to ask my advice or help in finding relief. I don’t miss the pain that stole your sleep and caused you distress, but I miss the sound of connection coming from your end of the house, if only a “ping” or vibration under my pillow. The fact that you needed me felt natural, and the fact that I loved taking care of your needs did, too. I still want to fill your Suck It Up, Buttercup Tervis with water or Gatorade, bring you a snack, or help you remember which pill you are allowed to take. Even though I know all your needs have now been met, I can’t escape the desire to soothe, humor, or comfort you. I hope you know I still feel like your mom.

Lest you think I’m too sad and mourning what we lost and all that might have been, I want you to know I’m doing ok. We all three are. Fine, even, some days. I haven’t figured out how to plug all the holes your leaving made, and I may never get to each of them to try. Your light, from 3:34 pm on May 28, 1998 onward, spread through every cranny of my heart. But my days are moving, if not dancing (you were my only dance partner here), to a new rhythm. I don’t need the reminders of hearing thunder, passing your room, or seeing your picture to make me think of you every single day at multiple times. I capture more time for study, writing, and reflecting than was possible while we chased your cure. And in those disciplines, where God makes sense of the questions that remain, you bloom anew in my heart. What’s blooming is the certainty that what He promised is true: that your endurance has had the perfect effect of making you mature, lacking nothing (James 1:4). And it happened before you reached 21. So, today we’ll celebrate that soul-changing milestone as we light a candle, cut your cookie cake, and think of you. And as I think of all God brought to me in your 20+ years, I’ll rejoice in knowing I still feel like your mom.

For more on Maggie’s love of Edelweiss, read here