My mom died.

I find myself whispering those three words to myself – just so that I can remember that it really happened. My mom was diagnosed with cancer. I flew to my childhood home to be with my parents after the disturbing news and while I was visiting she took a turn for the worse. Now I am sitting in her living room surrounded by the flowers from her funeral enveloped in so many memories.

Memories of her singing me to sleep while playing her guitar or accordion. Memories of elaborate puppet shows, birthday cakes, craft projects and meals that she gifted to us. I won’t soon forget sitting on the foot of her bed telling her all about my first date and her support as I told her that I wanted to travel to Mexico as a young teen. No matter how far I traveled from home, she was always waiting for me. The living room light was always on and the cabinets filled with my favorite treats whenever I walked in the side door. When I was stressed – I called mom. When I needed understanding, mom was the one I would seek out. Never did I need that more than when my own babies began calling me mom. She wore the role of mom well – but her glory days were her years as Nana. She drove two hours to Lansing just to babysit my sweet babies and give me a chance to get out of the house. She flew to China with suitcases brimming with treats and treasures to visit her grand babies and I can’t tell you how many times she opened her house to our chaos. She read books about adoption, printed out every newsletter, and prayed for each step that we took.

One of my favorite meals in her home was a Thanksgiving when she invited several of the international students from MSU. The students from India, China and the Middle East were soon calling her mom as she served them her apple pie. That particular holiday wasn’t unusual as I think back. There was always someone being added to our table, a guest to invite, a person that she wanted to make sure wasn’t alone.

When I called to tell my parents that we were adopting Benjamin – I was nervous. My parents have supported me through every crazy adventure, but I wondered if this one would be pushing even their boundaries. I began the conversation with, “I just want to remind you that you raised me this way.” Such a true story. They taught me to follow Jesus, to walk by faith and to love others. Before I could even get out the whole story of this adoption that was not planned, my mom interrupted and asked, “what is my new grandson’s name?” She knew. She accepted. She loved. There is always room for one more.

My mom died.

I can hardly believe that the next time I come home she won’t be sitting in the living room with the light on waiting for me. My only comfort – knowing that she is waiting for me in our eternal home. I just know that she is saving me a seat ready to show me all of the treasures that heaven has for both of us. What a homecoming that will be. Until then, I can hear her cheering me on – “there is always room for one more.” May I live that calling out – always inviting, always loving, and brining more folks home to heaven.

9 thoughts on “Homecoming

  1. What a beautiful tribute Tammy. Beautiful. You say those words as much as you need. It is pure joy to see you are following in her footsteps of living by faith.

  2. This beautiful post makes me cry. I love that your mom taught you that there’s always room for one more. What a gift to teach her daughter!

    Grieving with you.

    Sent from my iPhone


  3. A beautiful tribute to your Mom, Tammy. The way she lived her life has impacted so many people and she will not be forgotten. May the Lord’s comfort, peace and wisdom be with you and your family as you adjust to losing her.

  4. I’m so sorry Tammy. Our only comfort is the knowing of our meeting again. May you be comforted in that knowledge.
    I will pray for you. Jean.

  5. It is so good, Tammy, to think of Aunt Sharon in Heaven today! We miss her until we see her again. Thank you for your words!!!!

  6. That one brought tears, beautiful Tammy, I prefer to think she has “graduated.” Cannot truly imagine your sorrow. You seem to have it altogether but deep down inside the void is massive. I know because I keep thinking I need to call her. Bless you and your family. Love you all, Aunt Joyce


  7. My mother passed away in 1982, only a few months after my father. She too, was my “go to” person…the one I called when I needed advice, or just to tell me she loved me. I want to tell you it gets “easier” but losing a loved one isn’t about getting through or over it…..there is always a hole in your heart that can’t be filled. You have so many good memories of your mother, and you know you will see her again. Let that get you from one day to the next. I am so sorry for your loss.

  8. Dearest Tammy, I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. She sounds like she was a shining example as a mother and Christ’s servant. Thank you for sharing your beautiful tribute to her. The grief gets better with time, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss my parents and wish that I could speak or hug them one more time. As tears stream down my cheeks, my heart breaks for you! We love you and keep you in prayer. May God give you and your family comfort, love, and the peace that passes all understanding! Sending you warm hugs from Ohio.

  9. I’ve read this many times and cried every time. I just love you so much and am so grateful for your mom’s presence in your life and ways her shaping has impacted me through you. thinking for you, my dear friend!

    *Julie M. Longacre* 330/464-9194

    On Sat, Jan 27, 2018 at 10:55 PM, Casting A Stone wrote:

    > Tammy posted: “My mom died. I find myself whispering those three words to > myself – just so that I can remember that it really happened. My mom was > diagnosed with cancer. I flew to my childhood home to be with my parents > after the disturbing news and while I was visitin” >

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.