Mommy Ferne
This past December, Mommy Ferne got ready for one last cruise.
As with any trip, she had to decide what to take with her. She looked back at her life and the people in it, and decided to take just the good parts. She didn’t need to make room for failures or regrets. She packed acceptance, and grace, and loving memories.
She thought about her itinerary. She talked about getting to see Momma Betty and Daddy Jack. And of course, she was looking forward to seeing her Honey again. She wondered what he would say to her, but knew they would hold hands. I’m sure he’s been saving up some good jokes to tell her so he can hear her laugh.
She made sure to say her farewells before she boarded. She got to say goodbye to all of her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. She told us all how much she loves us, and told us to take care of each other. She put Marshall in charge, in case you were wondering.
And we were all lucky enough to say our own farewells to Mommy Ferne. Her death leaves a hole in our hearts, but not - I hope - regret. We got to tell her how much we love her. We got to tell her how special she was and how much she meant to us.
I know we’ll miss her, fiercely. Grieving is a journey for us all, and one of the ways we honor Mommy Ferne is by taking that journey together. We’ll never match her flair for song title poetry, but we’ll never lack for love.
Let Mommy Ferne’s memory be a blessing for us all; and take comfort knowing that she and Grandpa are taking this last cruise together - he got them a room with a great view, and their favorite song will play anytime they feel like dancing.
I visited Mommy Ferne in December when her health took a turn for the worse. We thought - and she thought - that it was her time to go. I thought it would be a really hard week; but it was a gentle week, and full of love.
I am incredibly grateful for that week. She had time to say goodbye, to say I love you. And we all had time to say it back.
I got to hear stories, hear what she thought was waiting for her on the other side of dying, hear how calm and ready she was. I held her hand and listened to her reflect on her life - everything she'd accomplished, and the memories that made her happy. She never lost her sense of humor, or her love for family.
I got to experience the best of who she was at the end, and I will always carry that with me in my heart - even as it aches and I miss her.
Mommy Ferne's phrase has always been "I love you more".
Not more than you loved her, or more than someone else loved you, but just - more. More than she ever thought possible, more and more each day.
“How are you doing?”
“What can I get you?”
"Do you need a hug?"
“Did you eat?”
“How’re you feeling?”
An arm tickle. A hug. A hand on the back as you walk by.
Making cookies. Making tea.
Looking through photo albums. Listing out all of the food options in the house.
So many ways to say, “I love you.” To say, “I’m here for you.” To say, “This is hard, but we are together.” To say, “I see you grieving. I see you sad. I see you.”
We have gathered in Mommy Ferne and Grandpa's house for my whole life. We’ve held celebrations of love and remembrances of life. We have laughed and cried, told stories and sung, watched each other grow up and create our lives.
We learned to love in this house. We learned the importance of being present; of helping without asking; of sharing support and a shoulder; of humor in the face of sorrow. The people in our family hold so much joy, but we never keep it just for ourselves. We share it willingly and without reservation because we know that shared joy is doubled.
We know that shared sorrow is eased.
My heart ached as I left their house for the last time. Their name on the green mailbox. The hibiscus out front, blooming; the gardenia bushes that haven’t yet.
I love you more, Mommy Ferne ❤️
