February Blossoms

February started out as a difficult month for me this year. I had just begun a new class in my master’s program and spent a few weeks adjusting to the level of research required for assignments, all the while getting back into the swing of balancing a full-time job with schoolwork, church, and relational responsibilities. And I was anticipating today—the seven-year anniversary of my mother’s death—with more emotion and grieving moments than usual.

Then, just before Valentine’s Day, the trees surrounding my office building broke into winter with springtime blossoms.

It was unexpectedly early, even for Tennessee.

But those blossoms came to mind as I got up today, remembering that early morning moment when my mother’s spirit took flight. Those blossoms illustrate resurrection truth; they hint at the Creator’s power over what looks like death in winter and His ability to bring new life to all that He touches, season after season.

I read from 1 Corinthians 15 this morning, looking forward to that day when the final enemy of death will be destroyed under the reign of Christ (v. 24-26). Until then, however, I know my mom’s spirit lives in His presence, the fullness of joy. And I know that He makes the continual renewal of resurrection available to me in this lifetime.

Every year on this day I long to do something special to remember my mom and mark the significance of another year without her, especially because I can’t visit her grave (which is 800 miles away). For the last few years, I haven’t landed on what that perfect ritual is.

But this year, something different happened. I scheduled a half-day off and spent the afternoon with my husband. He wanted to take me to lunch at a restaurant where we had lovely memories. It was incredibly special to make a beautiful memory with him there again on a day that held the worst memory of my life. Afterwards, we walked around the pond at one of my favorite Nashville parks, enjoying the sunshine and yellow daffodils. The afternoon was an unexpected blossom of joy in the winter of remembrance.

By the time we got home, I no longer felt the need to complete some kind of ritual. Instead, I had enjoyed every precious moment that I had with someone I loved, moments we would never have together again. I think my mother would have approved. She loved to go out to lunch, spend time together shopping or running errands, or sit and talk. She made spending time with those she loved a priority, and she savored those times. If ever there was an appropriate way to remember the day of her death, it is to practice the lessons I learned from her life.