Hope is like the Sun

Back in the day Mom and Dads’ first house was the gathering place on this street. My dad commented just this week that he wishes life was like it was then, when people would stop by to say hi. No texting, no scheduling, just stopping by to talk and share a beer. My brothers and I were all born two blocks away. As we moved to different homes my parents maintained their open door policy. 

My mom was a kid magnet and our home was a giant playhouse. All kinds of kids entered the chaos of our life because their own homes were boring, not weird, or their parents worked all the time, or they had single moms or their parents were going through divorce. Sometimes they were kids who had less. Less money, less opportunity, less love, less food. Immigrant kids who were navigating a new culture. Kids who just wanted to hang out because they were allowed to. Allowed to get messy, Allowed to be themselves. You could be anybody at our house. She let us dye our hair and shave our heads. We got piercings and tattoos. We had slumber parties with boys and girls. She’d tell us that she’d rather we express ourselves in creative ways rather than turn to drugs and other stupid shit. And somehow, while creating the most fun house in town, she encouraged us to leave and see the world. We knew that home was not a place in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It was a feeling we could take with us anywhere. She loved learning through our travels and supported every single trip we took. I found every gift and postcard we ever sent her….in the basement. 🙂

When I went to Ghana to study abroad my passport was stolen and I was detained for awhile upon entry. It was super scary at the time. I wasn’t able to call home until I was released and made it to the university the next day. When I got her on the phone I couldn’t even talk. I was crying so hard that I just silently sobbed. And she was there on the line saying, “Hi sweetie. I love you. I don’t know what happened you can tell me later. But you are ok now… and I’m proud of you and you are brave. Hang in there. Whatever happened you will be ok. You are tough. Call me again soon. I love you.” My only word was… “bye.” 

She always knew what to say to bring you up. To make you strong and solid. 

That was almost 20 years ago. In two weeks, I’ll be going back to Ghana to lead a study abroad program. It will be my 9th trip there. 

I’m going to miss my mom everyday for so many reasons. There are just so many things in my home that were given by or made by my mom. All my holiday decorations, my kids’ toys, books, and art. There are also all the things that were made possible because of my mom, items from my younger years traveling and things I made because I learned the skill from her. This sounds like physical stuff, but if you know my mom, you know how she felt about stuff. Everything could become something special if displayed correctly, painted over, repurposed or re-gifted. Stuff was her spirituality. Every holiday needed to shine with new stuff and every project needed new supplies of stuff. And you must always save stuff for the near and distant futures.

I spent some time in the basement, The SmithSHOWNian last week. I found the cut off jean shorts my dad had on the day they met, I found my hand drawn birth announcements, I found Pat’s middle school persuasive essay on the significance of Pop-up books, and I found hair from Ben’s first hair cut. I also found teaching units, mountains of craft materials and art supplies, and bins and bins of photos. Every time I found something very cool to save, I would turn around to find many more of the exact same thing. My mom was nostalgic and she loved looking back on good times and bad. She kept things because it made her cherish life. She made things and gave them away so others too could have some stuff to cherish. It was painful to find all the half-finished projects and items earmarked for future gift-giving. She never expected this. Neither did we. That big ole house of stuff sure does feel empty now. 

We can’t talk about Barb without talking about Don. My Dad loves my mom so much and she loved that he was so into her. She was the type who resisted and was always telling my dad to back off, but we all knew she secretly loved it and being loved by him was the most secure thing in her life. In the love she knew they could do anything. They could solve any problem and get through any struggle. They had their roles and worked them to the extreme. Nothing fell through the cracks because they worked out a system where everything got done. They were so proud of each others’ work. Every meal and every car repair was a sign of their love and commitment to each other, to family. Everytime my dad was in an accident…and OMG there were so many freakin’ accidents! Her heart sank and she mustered up all her strength to heal him. And the years my mom was in pain, her back surgeries, and these past three months with cancer my dad’s heart sank too. It is deep in an ocean of sorrow now because he couldn’t heal her. We must learn from their love. We must commit and recommit to family and healing each other. 

My mom spent her final years painting with the sun. She was our freckly, strong, redhead starting fires of beauty everywhere she went.

May her flame burn in us all forever. 

“Hope is like the sun. If you only believe in it when you see it, you’ll never make it through the night.” ~ Princess, Leia Organa