True Warrior

A dozen or more.

That is the number of times each day that I think to pick up the phone to call my mother. I don't actually do it, you see.  My mom lost her battle with Lupus just days before my 39^th birthday. 

My mom was diagnosed 18 or so years ago.  I didn't realize that she was truly sick until 2006.  One Sunday afternoon, after eating lunch with our family, I noticed the rolled up sleeves of her white, linen tunic revealing her battered-looking arms.  They were so very, very thin, and bruised. They were shades of black, purple and blue.  I asked her what happened. She replied, “nothing”.  Really?  That began my lesson into the horrors of autoimmune disease.  Lupus ravaged her body, but it couldn't steal her courage, faith or love.   

To the untrained eye, one of these hands may look like it belongs to a frail, elderly person, but that couldn't be further from the truth. This is a picture of me holding a true warrior’s hand. It is the same hand of the strongest person that I have ever known, my mom.

I miss my mother and I grieve my loss, but not for a second do I wish that she were here.  I would never want her to suffer for even another second.  I can only imagine what an incredible Mother’s Day she will be having in Heaven.  

During one of our last conversations, my mom told me that my children would help me get through her death. As always, she was right.

Happy Mother’s Day, Moma! 

Moma and Me