My Mom's Chair

This is my mom’s chair. She’s not in it because she’s resting right now. She rests a lot these days. Cancer really takes it out of a person.

I wanted to make a video and talk to you, but I’m not sure I’m my best today. Plus, writing always feels like therapy to me - so today, I write.

Last night my mom reached over and took my hand and said, “Melissa, I had a dream. It was like I was a little camera up in the corner of the living room, watching everything. And all of our family was opening gifts, and it was Christmas. But I wasn’t in the room. I wasn’t in the dream at all.”

She asked me what I thought that meant. But I didn’t answer her. And that was okay, because within seconds she had forgotten what she even asked.

But I didn’t.

I went home with that. I went to bed with that.

And so, this morning I woke up.

And then I went back to bed. And then I got up and brushed my teeth. And then I went back to bed.

And now I’m here - at her house - putting her down for a nap, and then, beside her, I’ll go back to bed.

And the reason why I tell you this is because today I decided to treat myself like Jesus would.

Do you think Jesus would look at me, pat me on the back, and say, “Back to work!”

Do you think Jesus would roll his eyes and say, “Get over yourself, Melissa Paige.”

There may come a day when He needs to say those things to me, but it’s certainly not today.

Today He invites me to the table of brokenness. Where grief and sadness are on display; where tears are recorded and caught and bottled up.

This morning He whispered to me, “Today is the first day you’ve imagined a holiday without your mom. Move slowly, my love. Be careful. You’re only pottery. You break easily.”

You’re pottery, too. You break easily, too.

Maybe today is the first day after your divorce was final. The first day you’re looking for a new job. Maybe it’s the first time you’ve had to do it alone.

There’s a table waiting for you.

It’s long, and there are so many chairs. So much room.

It’s where the hungry sit and are fed, where the lonely sit and are comforted, where the broken sit and are restored.

My mom sits at this table of grief. I sit beside her. My dad on the other side. But there’s room for you, too.

So maybe today, you move a little slower. You speak to yourself a little kinder. You sleep when you want to sleep. And you eat truffle parm fries.

Maybe today you treat yourself like Jesus would treat you - if He were here. Because He is.

He is not a camera up in the corner of a crowded room, watching it all unfold - still a good, healthy distance away.

He is in the room. Filling up the empty chairs.

Love,

Melissa

* Someone you know is easily broken right now. Share this with them before you move on.