Holly Lynn 365

Monday, October 5, 2015

Ever since I was a little girl, I've had an aversion to darkness.

At nighttime, I would avoid going to bed, not because I wasn't tired, but because when that time came, all of the lights went out.

My parents learned this early on, and always made sure to leave a light on for me.

I remember one particular night, when I was about four years old, my mom came to tuck me into bed, and I asked her to wrap my blankets around me to protect me from the darkness. Of course she obliged, but then, she asked me what I meant. I expressed my fears about the dark, and asked her what would happen if all of the lights went out forever. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something to the effect of "If that happens, Holly, I will be the light in your darkness."

In the days and weeks since mom has passed, I've had this overwhelming sense of doom at nighttime. I almost can't bear it when the sun goes down, and I have to face the night alone. I had thought that the reason nighttime was so hard was because that was when we would go visit her, I chalked it up to a change in routine, and I'm sure that is a part of it.

What I hadn't realized is that there is a deeper meaning for me. I have started thinking about darkness recently, mostly because of the lunar eclipse, and I realized that missing my mom is the soul-ar eclipse of my life.

She was my light in the darkness. She loved and guided me when I needed it most, and her light is missing in my life.

We're headed into the time of the year where the days grow shorter, and the nights get longer, and for someone who is grieving her source of light, that is utterly terrifying.
No amount of lamps or candles could reignite the light within me that she kindled. I'm not certain that anything will fill that space again, or fuel that flame. But I will spend my days exuding light for others, until our souls meet again.

And to her I say, "Since it happened, Mama, I will search for your light in my darkness."

Saturday, October 3, 2015

If I had one more day, what would I say? What would I do?

I would talk, without end. I'd record our conversation, and I'd ask you a thousand questions about life, so that I would know what you would say about anything and everything.

I'd lay by your side, and be wrapped in your arms. I would do my best to memorize everything about you, and I would take just one more picture.

But I don't have just one more day. I live in a world where there are no more tomorrows with you. And I miss that.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Sheila Porter Sagers Life Sketch

Sheila Porter Sagers. How do we remember such a kind, strong, and beautiful woman? How do I share with you, some of my most precious and dear memories of my mother? I have decided to do this the only way I know how, and that is with a letter, written and sent to Heaven, and delivered to you here today.

Mama,

All of these people here are expecting me to say some nice things about you… What would you like them to know?

You’d want them to know how you loved your daughters, you’d want them to know how devoted your husband was.

Well, they already know, mama. It’s time for me to tell them about you.

Mama,

When you were born, you were adored by your family. You filled a hole in your mother’s heart. When you were growing up, you were a handful – or so I’ve been told. When you would talk with your mama, you both would start laughing uncontrollably – nothing and no one could get you to stop.

When you were in high school, and you played the clarinet? You would march until your feet bled. You were so good, your band got to go play at nationals. You were so proud of that.

When you moved to Ogden, you were sassy and confident, and you had such a passion for life. When you bought your Camaro, and asked daddy if he wanted to go for a ride, you began your short but beautiful journey together. Just so you know, mama, you had his heart from day one.

When you and daddy got married, and tried to have a family, you prayed and prayed that one day, you would be blessed with a baby. God heard you, mama. He gave you two. You and your body endured years of fertility treatments just to get Ashley and me here, and for that I am so grateful.

When we were growing up, mama, we knew we were so loved. You had this way about you, a way of making us feel that the world would be alright, no matter how dark or ugly it could be.

When you spent those little moments with us mama, we knew there was nothing in the world more important to you.

When you’d let us sit on the kitchen table, and you’d paint our toenails and tell us stories, we knew what devotion was.

When we came home from school, mama, and you dropped what you were doing to listen, we knew what priorities were.

When you stayed up countless nights sewing, mama, we wore your love around us.

When you shared with us your love of reading, mama, we found out just how big this world could be.

When you taught us how to cook, mama, we learned what love tasted like.

When you would walk by our room and watch us sleep, mama, we felt your prayers.

And when you hugged us, mama, we never wanted to let go.

And, When you got sick, mama, and we thought our hearts were breaking, you showed us how strong you really were. When I try and describe to people how you were, mama, the words that come to mind are “strong” and “loving”.

I wrote about you, mama. A lot. In my journals, and on my blog. I tried to tell the world how much you meant to me. I learned so much from your example.

I want to share with you now, mama, the words I never told you. The words I hoped you knew in your heart.

I hope you knew the reason we fought so hard to keep you here is because we loved you.

I hope you knew that my heart broke when I saw you in pain.

I hope you knew that I saw beyond your disability - I saw my mama.

I hope you knew that despite all that your disease had taken from you, I knew you were still there.

I hope you knew, mama, that you have given me more than you have taken from me.

I hope you knew, mama, that all of the tears I have cried are not because of you, they are for you.

I hope you knew that when I walked out of your room every night, I left a piece of my heart with you.

I hope you know that everything I do is to make you proud.

I hope you knew that I will always carry you in my heart.

I hope you knew that you gave me a solid foundation - a good one.

I hope you knew that I'm forever grateful for the things you taught me.

I hope you knew that I cherish our memories... And your stories.

I hope you know that when I am happy, you are a part of my happiness.

I hope you knew that in the quiet moments, when our eyes met, I knew you were speaking to my soul.

I hope you knew that when you reached a trembling hand toward me, it warmed my heart.

I hope you know that when people tell me I'm just like you, it makes me proud.

I hope you know that I am happy I look just like you.

I hope you know that I have never, not once, been embarrassed of you.

I hope you know... Just how much I loved you.

I hope you know that I am so grateful that God made you mine.

I hope you know that you were the best mama a girl could ever have.

You were brave, mama. You were strong. You fought. You stood in the face of MS and you suffered, but never once complained. And for that, you’ll always be my hero.

Love forever,

Your Princess

Thursday, August 27, 2015

On A New Journey

It is with a broken heart that I share with you that our beloved wife and mother, Sheila passed away early this afternoon. It was sudden, but not unexpected, and we take comfort in knowing that she is no longer suffering. After a seven year battle with advanced MS, she is free.

We will know details of funeral services tomorrow, and will update you all then.

We would also like to thank the nursing staff of Heritage Park Care Center for caring for and loving mom for the past four years.

Thank you for your thoughts, prayers, and condolences through this difficult time.

Monday, October 27, 2014

Terrible Flaming Jealousy.

I hate that it seems like everywhere I turn, there are moms and daughters that are fighting. I can't stand to watch an eye roll from a 13 year old and a sigh from her middle aged mother... It drives me crazy.

I'm not sure if it's because I never had that (crazy to want it, I know) or because it makes me angry to see people disrespect their mothers, but every time I do, I experience this terrible feeling. It's part anger, part frustration, and mostly sadness, because I know what it's like to NOT have a mom around to argue with or even really talk with.

Even worse than this, when I see a young woman with her mom, happy, long past the years of teenage conflict, or an older woman, taking care of her elderly mother I feel this terrible, flaming, jealousy. I hate that I feel this way. I hate that I can't be happy for them, but I can't. Because the thing that hurts the most about all of this, is the fact that for all of the important events for the rest of my life, and even just the little moments along the way, I won't have my mom. And it's not because she has passed away, and it's not that she doesn't care. It's because she wants to be there. And she can't.

I'm not talking about physically there, because she might be. I'm talking about present. And available. And able to be the woman I grew up with, the one I knew and loved.

Sometimes, very rarely, I see a glimpse of who she was, and I'm so grateful for those milliseconds. But the sad part of those beautiful moments is they only last for that, a moment.

For now, I'm not sure how to get past this jealousy. I'm not really sure I want to, because it fuels my fire. It makes me want to cure her disease, and to help prevent another girl from ever feeling this way. Because when a 14 year old girl feels helpless to save her mother, it changes her life.