Dear Mom

Dear Mommy,

See, sometimes there's a good reason that I'm hidden away in my room on the computer. =)

I would write this letter in private, for your eyes only, and I will. Some time, you will open a letter written just to you, for only you to see. But I feel like this world deserves to catch a little glimpse of the woman who enables me to have a fantastic mother-daughter relationship that I simply adore.

Did you know that when I was little, I would never, ever get up out of bed after you tucked me in? I didn't want to mess up the wonderful job you'd done tucking me in. I don't remember when you stopped "tucking," but I miss it. Obviously, my bed misses it too. The poor thing can't seem to pull itself together...

I have never known a woman quite like you, and I don't think I ever shall. And of course, I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. I think your laugh is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. Your smile is one of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen. And you're the most huggable mommy ever. (After all, you have that purple sweater!)

I tell people that our "deep" conversations go something like this: You have something to talk to me about. You tell me. I cry. Then you cry. Then maybe I get mad, and maybe we raise our voices slightly. Someone invariably interrupts. We cry some more, I admit that I'm wrong (because I am), and then we always, always end with a declaration of our undying love. Then I attempt to repair my face and un-stuff my nose.

Either that, or it has nothing to do with either of us being wrong, and we have the best time ever. That's not quite as amusing to tell...but that's what changes me. That's what I remember the most, is just talking. Maybe about something, maybe about nothing at all. I love talking to you.

That's one of the reasons I'm glad I'm growing up. When I was little, I would never quite "get it." In fact, I probably had this look on my face like, "Mom, you are so weird." Maybe I still get that face sometimes...but now, I understand. I know why you're talking to me. I get that what you're saying is important, that it has meaning for you, for me, and for the people around us.

And so I wanted to write you and make you promise -- and promise you in return -- that those conversations will never stop. We'll never stop spontaneously sitting down, extending what was supposed to be a thirty-second comment into a two hour conversation about life.

You know what just came on my iPod? Watching You. All I need to do is say "horse whisperer" and you'll get exactly what I'm saying. And that's just one of so many lessons and revelations we've experienced together. I'm so looking forward to sharing my college lessons and revelations with you, and hearing about the ones you have while I'm away. I will conquer the phone and talk to you so much that you'll get sick of me.

And even when that day comes when maybe I won't call you for an hour-long conversation... You'll still be a part of everything I say and do. I've thanked God so many times that I was given you for a mom. I'd be a very different person without you (and not a better one!). I wish I were a better daughter, not because you've ever made me feel like I'm not good enough, but because I really, really wish I could repay you for all you are. But I know that's not even possible. So all I can do is say "thank you", and "I love you." Because I do. So, so much.

Love,
Kendall

Change

I hate lasts. I hate them a lot. I don't care that lasts lead to new beginnings. I'd like my old beginnings to continue on.

But they don't. They come to an end.

Last night was my last prom. And as my last prom, it was also my last high school dance. It was wonderful, it was beautiful, and I'll have those memories forever, but when I got home, what I did was cry. I sobbed into my pillow and told God I can't do it. I can't graduate. I can't leave home and go to college halfway across the country. I can't wake up in the morning and not have the promise of seeing the beautiful faces of the people I've come to know so well the past four years. (They tell you that by the time you hit May, you'll be thrilled to graduate and get out of there. Tripe, I tell you, tripe!)

And it hurts so badly, sometimes I just want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to squeeze my fists, I want to rip up a really big plant, I want to go underwater and not come back up until I have the promise that everything will stay the same.

But things don't stay the same. Nor should they. They change. I understand it. But that doesn't mean I like it.

There is something so crucial about going through this time of change in my life. As I've gone through all these "lasts," I've been forced to ask myself, What is my constant? When I wake up in the morning, what is my trust in? While everything around me whirls out of control, what am I counting on to stay the same?

And that's when I realize that my trust is in the wrong things. My trust is in waking up to a queen-sized bed and a semi-messy room. My trust is in knowing exactly how many stairs lead up to the kitchen. My trust is in the view from my family room. My trust is in knowing exactly where every outlet is in a given area. My trust is in the mommy who never fails to remind me, "Text me when you get there." My trust is in a little blue Corolla. My trust is in a boy whose hugs I look forward to every Thursday. My trust is in a girl I can count on to hug me, and laugh and cry with me no matter what I'm going through. My trust is in a school where everyone knows your name, and you know everyone's name. My trust is in teachers who can always tell when something is wrong. My trust is in knowing I can run to my mommy's room if I get sick in the middle of the night.

And all of that is about to change. I'll be going to a place where I don't know the number of stairs leading up to a dorm room. Where I'll have a twin bed. Where I have no idea what my view will look like. Where I'll no longer text my mommy every time I go somewhere. Where I won't have a car, where I'll never get those Thursday hugs, where that girl will only be available by phone, where no one will know my name for a long time, where teachers haven't learned what I look like when I'm upset, where if I get sick in the middle of the night, I'll be all alone.

I've never been so terrified. I wish I could stay four years old for forever and sleep in my parents' bed when I get scared of the dark. I wish I could stay eight years old forever and have the imagination that never runs out of names for its dolls. I wish I could stay twelve forever, just on the brink of being a teenager. I wish I could stay seventeen and eleven twelfths forever, grown up but still held close by that childhood home.

I wish I didn't have to grow up. I wish things didn't have to change. Big girls don't cry...but now that I'm a big girl, I've never cried so much (as evidenced by the six tissues that have been used while writing this post).

But in the midst of it all, I hear whispered softly to my heart, I'm so glad you're sad. It means you understand how much you've been blessed. I'm so glad you're weak, so that I can be strong. I'm so glad you're falling down, so that I can help you back up. I'm so glad you can't do this -- because now, you'll let Me.

When everything else changes, my Jesus stays the same. When everything I've trusted in is ripped away, I have to trust in Him. When I'm all alone, I'll be quicker to run to Him. When I'm terrified, He'll hold me in His arms and remind me that He has plans to prosper me and not to harm me, plans to give me a hope and a future.

I hate lasts. I hate change. But I love my Savior. And if change is what will bring me closer to Him...then bring it on.