In May Lance and the boys would go on a camp out with our church.
Rory and I didn’t waste time.
We got McDonalds.
We took it home and feasted.
Then we got in our pajamas.
Manicured and pedicured it up.
Played a game or two, usually Candyland.
Then laid back and enjoyed a movie. Her go to was always Tangled.
My heart.
In pictures.
I miss those nights.
Living with grief is a hyphenated life. There are very few times that I feel just one emotion anymore.
When I’m experiencing a moment of joy, I’m also experiencing sadness because someone is missing. Rory should be here, experiencing this with me.
When we were in Hawai’i, we were standing by a cliff’s edge. The sun was shining down on us, warming our skin. The wind blowing through our hair, knocking hats off.
The moment was beautiful.
One of my boys came over and wrapped me in a hug. “Rory never got to go here. She never felt the wind and the sun like this.”
She didn’t. She doesn’t.
A broken-hearted thought, in the middle of remarkable experience.
A hyphenated life.
I believe strongly that it takes a village to raise kids.
As parents we do all we can for them.
But there are times they need people outside of us.
Grandma, aunts, cousins, neighbors, moms of friends, teachers, doctors, fellow church members, etc.
This group of people have made such a huge impact on my children.
I am eternally grateful for people that love my kids.
I’m grateful for people that reach out to them, that take time to get to know them.
Rory was in a unique situation that she got to know a lot of adults in her life. She had so many classroom parents that loved her. The school secretaries had a special relationship with her. Almost all of her teachers expressed how much they loved her.
I’m so grateful for the people that took the time to love her.
To all the women out there that love my kids.
Thank you.
I love you.
I need you.
Happy Mother’s Day.
To the mom with an extra seat at the table.
To the mom with empty arms today.
To the mom with a vacant seat in the car.
To the mom with a hole in her heart.
To the mom who sobs on their birthday.
To the mom who clings to clothing late at night.
To the mom whose life never quite feels complete.
To the mom who makes it through each hour.
To the mom who holds tighter to those around.
To the mom who loves harder now.
To the mom who falls to her knees.
To the mom who finds strength somehow.
To the mom whose loss seems more than she can bear.
To the mom who stands each day anyway.
To my fellow bereaved mothers. Thank you for sharing your stories. I’m so sorry this is our journey. I see you. I love you. You make me feel less alone.
To those that love and support us. Thank you. Texting, prayers, drop by’s, treats, stories of our child, hugs, they sustain us and provide hope. We love you.
We went on a Dolphin/Turtle Excursion a couple of days ago in Hawaii.
We were so excited!! A new adventure for the boys!
As the boat took off, my thoughts turned to Rory.
My breathing accelerated.
Tears were prickling my eyes.
But I didn’t want to miss this moment with my family.
I wanted to stay in control.
I didn’t want them to worry about me.
I started praying.
Help me.
Help me feel her.
Help me know she’s around us.
Help me know she’s here.
Send her to us.
Please.
I miss her.
I miss her so much.
I took a deep breath.
In my mind I could see her next to me. Her hand on mine.
Then Moana came on the boat’s stereo. Not the whole song just a couple stanzas.
The movie that was on repeat before she died.
“The line where the sky meets the sea? It calls me
And no one knows, how far it goes
If the wind in my sail on the sea stays behind me
One day I’ll know, how far I’ll go”
The line between Heaven and Earth.
It calls to me.
I’m grateful it blurs somedays.
Rory Ann Moore Foundation 