I Learned More About Myself Reading Mom’s Diary

I Am Her Mini Me

My wasband discovered my mom’s journal in his stuff a few weeks ago. I didn’t even realize it was gone, but given the aftermath of the past few years, it didn’t surprise me it got mixed in with his stuff. 

“Would you like me to mail it to you?” he texted. He knows I don’t hang on to a lot of memorabilia, but this was definitely something I wanted.

Oh, yes, please!

The day it arrived, I sat down with it.

I wanted to be in the right frame of mind, knowing it could trigger a wave of grief. Lord knows I’ve had enough of that over the past few years.

This wasn’t the first time I had read it. Mom passed away in 1995, so I had read it way back then and tucked it away with other family items.

I lit a candle, took a deep breath and whispered, hello, mom.

Her beautiful penmanship seemed to reply, hello my beloved daughter.

A mild swell of emotions, but no tidal wave of grief. Phew.

I started reading.

First entry: “Dear God, I found out today I have heart damage. I can take that, but I cannot take ‘soul damage.’”

She reflects on her struggle between sin and her desire to please God.

“I so want to live for you, but life gets in my way,” she writes.

“The human side of me and the shadow side of me interfere with it.”

You had me at hello, mom.

She sounds… just like me. Or rather, I sound just like her.

The predominant topic of her journal is about her faith and her struggle to live out that life of faith.

I would have liked to have known this woman as an adult. I was 30 when mom died, so it’s not as though I didn’t have adult interactions with her. But they rarely were deep heart to heart matters.

And now, as a recent breast cancer survivor, I found a new connection to my mom through her reflections on her health issues.

“Thank you, Jesus, for bringing me closer to you through my failing heart.”

Oh, bloody hell. I reach for a tissue. And I keep reading.

There is a lapse in entries. It is now two years later.

“Time flies! Thanks be to you, Lord Jesus Christ, I have had my valve repaired and 3 bypasses… 55 days in hospital… it’s now 4am. Can’t sleep.”

I get it, mom. I totally get it. My life too was delivered by successful cancer treatment. And insomnia sucks.

I am seeing mom as a peer now. I read, “I am now 57 and wonder if I will see 58.” I feel a weird sense, I am now 58.

My siblings and cousin often say I am most like mom out of her seven kids. That was an insult during my youth. “You’re just like mom!” would be used to accuse me when I was being impatient.

Mom was the kind of gal who would raise her coffee cup in a restaurant and tap it with the other hand to show an empty cup in need of a refill. It would mortify us kids, even though it was always done with a smile.

When the server would appear, mom would always make a point of finding something to compliment on. “Oh, my! What a lovely ring you’re wearing!”

Guess who’s caught herself doing the same thing?

As I read mom’s journal, I find my head nodding. Yep. I am a LOT like mom.

She loved deeply and struggled with her shadow aspects. She repeatedly expresses her desire to be kind to all, at all times.

Her kindness towards strangers was something we all observed in her life. Some of my earliest memories were those of mom taking us to a monastery in downtown Detroit to serve the poor in a soup kitchen.

I credit my years of volunteer service because of this early example.

She mentions dad. “We are on two different paths,” she writes. His first love is alcohol, she observes.

She never shit talks him. But the struggle of an unhappy marriage is writ large.

I get that now too, mom. You still loved him, but life with him was becoming unmanageable. Oh yes, you’re reading my mail, mom.

Dad died not long after mom’s journal entry. A one and done heart attack took him out at the age of 53.

My siblings and I suspected she was contemplating divorce prior to dad’s death but we will never know now.

Another entry causes my eyes to mist over.

Lord, I’ve asked you for a nice place to live, just once before I die.

I get it, mom. Deferred dreams and unrealized hopes.

The topic changes.

She is asking Jesus for strength and the breath to see her grandchild, my firstborn.

Even after the heart surgery, she struggled with congestive heart failure.

Mom often minimized her health challenges and never complained. With a smile, she would say she didn’t fear death.

While it reflected this in her journal, there are hints of the fear. But those fears are more existential. Would she be able to finish the tasks God’s give her before she dies?

Once again, I see myself. I am painfully aware that I’ve not done many of the things I’ve wanted to do.

She makes it to Montana where we lived and are celebrating the arrival of our firstborn. The time with her is wonderful. I remember, via her journal, the baking she did for us. The laundry. The baby snuggling.

A few more months pass. She knew her time on earth was winding down. She records: Kidneys going. Breath gone. Prayer sustains me.

Her last entry makes me both laugh and cry.

Lord-Help me find my keys!!!

Death is sadness only for those left behind.

This is where mom and I differ. I always hang up keys the minute I walk into the house. Always have, always will. 

And it always made me giggle thinking about how she would jingle her keys and announce, “I’ll be in the car, don’t hurry!”

Ah. The art of passive aggressive prodding. I used that one on my kids too.

I reflect on the things I’ve read.

Health struggles. An unhappy marriage that she tried to hang on to. A desire to be loving and kind. Worry about her kids. Grief when my sister died. Grief over dad’s death. Deep faith and love for God. And a tendency to lose keys.

Yes, she was well acquainted with grief.

Oh mom. I see you… and myself… in every word you wrote. Well, except for the key thing. (Smile)

Mom made it past 58 and was to live for another 12 years.

After my baby turned one, she passed away. It’s been many years now but I there is not a day goes by where I do not think of her and miss her.

But then I realize she is with me. She is part of who I am. For good, for shadow, and for impatient key jingling.

Thank you for the gifts you’ve given me, mom.