Happy Birthday, A Letter to Momma,

I know you will not receive this letter the way you would have when you were here, but maybe this is more for me than it is for you. Maybe it is my heart trying to put into words what has been sitting there quietly for the past year.

I miss you.

There are so many things I wish I could tell you. So many little moments I would give anything to experience one more time.

When I think about you, I remember the late-night lectures — the ones I probably did not appreciate as much as I should have back then. I remember sitting on the stairs, listening to you teach me, guide me, correct me, and shape me.

I remember 7th Street in Kingfisher, where our home became my classroom.

I remember wishing I could go to a regular school with other kids. At the time, I did not understand why my life was different. I wanted what everyone else seemed to have.

But now, looking back with the eyes of someone who has lived more life, I see what I could not see then.

I see a mom who had so much to do, so many responsibilities, and yet you still made the time to make sure I learned. You poured your energy, patience, and love into me.

You were not just teaching me lessons from books.

You were teaching me how to live.

You were teaching me perseverance.

You were teaching me responsibility.

You were teaching me faith.

You were teaching me what love looks like when it shows up every single day.

I think about those days in Surrey Hills too. Memories that felt ordinary then have become priceless treasures now.

One of the things I miss the most are the simple moments.

When I worked at Pioneer, I was supposed to have a one-hour lunch break, but many times I would take a two-hour lunch because I wanted that time with you.

I remember getting to your house early sometimes. You and Dad would be in the Maine room, and I would sit in the red chair. You always told Dad that chair belonged outside, but I loved sitting there.

Sometimes I would get there before you made it into the Maine room, and I would wait for Dad to bring you in.

No rush.

No schedule.

Just you, Dad, and me.

Then around 11:00 or 12:00, we would move into the living room. You would lay on your couch, and we would visit.

I did not realize then that I was living some of the moments I would later treasure the most.

I wish I could go back and tell myself:

“Pay attention. Remember this. These moments are gifts.”

Because now, I would give anything to sit in that room again.

I would give anything to hear your voice.

I would give anything to have just one more conversation.

And sometimes, when these memories come flooding back, I find myself crying.

For a long time, I tried to stop the tears.

I tried to hold them back.

I thought maybe if I stayed strong enough, I could keep the ache from showing.

But I have learned something.

Now I just let them come.

Because those tears are not weakness.

They are love.

They are the reminder of how blessed I was to have you as my mom.

They are proof that the moments we shared mattered.

And even though they hurt, I would never trade those memories for anything.

Life has a way of teaching us the value of things after we cannot hold them anymore.

I will never forget the day you took your last ambulance ride.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

I remember holding your hand.

I remember singing for  12 hours with Melissa!

And then the next day, you left this world.

You passed into eternal bliss.

No more pain.

No more tears.

No more suffering.

You were finally where you always said you wanted to be — at the feet of Jesus.

And that is where my heart feels the deepest conflict.

Because somehow, happiness and grief live together.

I am heartbroken because I miss you.

I am joyful because you are healed.

I ache because I cannot talk to you the way I used to.

I rejoice because you are in the presence of the One you loved and served.

I wish I could have one more day with you, but I would never wish you back into a body that carried pain.

That is the strange mystery of love.

You can be happy for someone and still miss them more than words can explain.

You can celebrate where they are while crying over where they are not.

It has been a year, and the pain is still there.

The love is still there.

There is still a piece of my heart that feels missing.

I have not been the same since you left.

Maybe I never will be.

I am learning how to live in this new reality without you here. Some days are easier than others. Some days I still catch myself wanting to call you, wanting to tell you something, wanting to hear your thoughts.

But moment by moment.

Hour by hour.

I press on.

Because you taught me how.

I long for the day when I see you again.

And when that day comes, I know exactly where to find you.

You will be with Jesus.

And what a reunion that will be.

Thank you, Mom, for the example you set.

Thank you for showing me what it looked like to follow our Lord.

I could not have asked for a better example of faith, love, and devotion.

You showed me what it meant to trust God through the hardest moments.

You showed me what it meant to finish the race.

You showed me what it meant to keep the faith.

So today, on your birthday, I celebrate you.

I celebrate the life you lived.

I celebrate the love you gave.

I celebrate every lesson, every conversation, every sacrifice, and every moment you poured into me.

And yes, there is a part of me that is selfish. A part of me wishes you were still here so I could tell you these things face to face.

But love finds a way.

Love crosses the distance between Heaven and earth.

And I can still talk to you.

I love you, Mom.

Happy Birthday in Heaven.

Until we meet again in the Heavenly City,

Your grateful son ❤️