A handwritten note

It's something I've always loved. Loved to give, loved to receive. Handwritten notes are some of my most precious belongings. Over the past two weeks I had the privilege to be a part of maybe a dozen handwritten notes from sons and daughters to their mothers for Mother's Day. It was one of the most fun projects I've ever undertaken. A good deal of my time for about a week and a half was spent painting little flowers, a pineapple, an Alabama A. Those little cards were sent out, then sent again or hand-delivered with writing inside. Being a facilitator for little pieces of joy like that is a gift to me, now especially. Two years ago on May 7, 2014, my mom died after a long tug-of-war with cancer. I've hated Mother's Day since then. I've avoided talking about it, didn't attend church on that day, sunk back into myself to the little shelter I've built out of grief, depression, anxiety, fear, anger, and the like. It was a safe little place in that there were no emotions that could catch me off guard there. I was miserable, but in control. Acknowledging Mother's Day, wishing the other mothers in my life a happy day, is painful. It always will be. But this year, I got to channel all of that fear, anxiety, depression, anger, and grief into delicate little cards. I couldn't send a note to my mom, but I got to send notes to moms across the country. A lot of them I don't even know, but all of them played a special part in my Mother's Day this year. So I'm thankful for those strangers. I'm thankful that in their honor I got to paint and relish Mother's Day. I'm thankful I got to look at pictures of my mom and smile, knowing how excited she would have been to have gotten one of those cards from me. I'm thankful. And I'm okay.