I know what you’re thinking, how can “I” possibly be speaking?
Everything has a voice.
Every cell in your body has a voice—a memory.
You think of me. Moments, thoughts, feelings, uncertainties, dreams, indecision, the unexpected—I will always be with you.
That’s a voice.
Maybe you didn’t hear me then—lots of distractions, pressures, decisions, competing voices. I understand, but perhaps you would hear me now.
A person is never the sum of a moment or period in their life—they are eternal.
A time, a stage, a segment of their life does not define them or whether they are in fact a “them.” The moment your egg and my father’s sperm united, eternity spoke its creative evaluation and decision that I am a person. Besides, there is no other outcome that orchestration signifies nor grows. Somehow, someway, God or no God, intended or not, positive or negative, the cosmos was aligned to bring me to be, a human. Not as an intention, or a future formation, even if just an egg and sperm together, I have always been a person. That whole conception thing may have been my beginning, but every person has a beginning that does not make them any less a person from the beginning. I was not a “leading to life,” but life from the beginning.
All of this is to say—mom, you have a child, it’s me.
I’m still alive. Both in you, as a memory, and in heaven as a person, for eternity.
You have a child. It’s me. I’m speaking.
Mom, please listen—please.
I want you to know, I understand. Maybe you feel deep regret, maybe it was a confusing time, maybe you didn’t care at all. I understand—life is so complicated.
Yes, I think about what could have been, as probably you do as well. It’s sad, it’s painful, it’s hard—but, I am alive.
I still have a voice.
I want to tell you that I love you. I want to tell you that our eyes will meet one day. I can’t wait to wrap my arms around you, I practice for that moment with great anticipation.
I’m not angry with you, I don’t hold anything against you. In fact, Jesus and I have talked, and we both take great delight in you. Besides, on earth, who knows the mistakes I would have surely made, too many to count—reaching out for your patience, forgiveness, and long-suffering. Mom, I have nothing but love for you.
You are not less to me, you always have been more. It’s not about what could have been—it’s about what is, what can, and will be.
Mom, you have so much still to give, to share. You are so beautiful, especially to me.
I pray, in some way, my voice can speak through your voice.
Perhaps in that way, even now, we can be mother and child, together.
A voice of healing.
A voice of hope.
A voice, leading to better understanding.
A voice of clarity within the complexity.
A voice that speaks, from what at first was thought to have no speak.
I love you mom—always have, always will.
I am so proud of you—that you are my mom, always and forever.
I hope you hear me.
Grace is brave. Be brave.