Today, if she were still with us, my daughter Julie would turn 46.

Recently, my therapist asked me how I handle anniversary dates such as my daughter’s birthdate and the date of her death. “Carefully, and mindfully.” I responded. “I don’t make plans, and I have learned, the hard way, not to schedule major, or even minor, medical procedures on or near those dates. I honor the days as ones that may or may not brings difficult emotions, and so I give myself space and time to just be on those days.”

Each anniversary date brings the possibility of difficult emotions. On her birthdate, that day belongs just to her. I remember the gift that I was given on this day, a beautiful April day in 1976, when the daffodils and her birth marked the end of long and difficult winter. My springtime pixie arrived bringing sunshine and laughter with her from her earliest days.

My fourth child and third daughter, when placed in my arms for the very first time locked her blue eyes on mine and smiled a Julie smile. I’ll never forget that moment. I’d never experienced a newborn bonding in such a powerful way with me as a mother like Julie did just after her birth. It was a knowing look, knowing what I did not know, but she seemed to be an old soul and the bond I felt was not like any other in my life.

On her birthdate, I sometimes wonder how she would be in her 40’s, but in truth, I can’t picture her graying or approaching mid-life.

In my mind, she remains a vibrant 34 year old woman.

I once had a dream about Julie.

In my dream, someone asked how old Julie was.

I said,

"She has no age.

She is ageless.

She now belongs to the ages."

Julie is no longer bound by time.

She is timeless.

We mark time since she left us because we in this earthly realm are bound by time. We say, “It’s hard to imagine Julie at 46, or we’ll say, I can’t believe she’s been gone for twelve years. Yes, we link our memory of her in time frames, time frames that never get new pictures of her, never allow new memories to be made. The memories we have of her took place in 34 short years, and then she was gone, and the loss of her remains as new and fresh as the moment she left us. The shock of it all is tempered only by remembering the joy that she was while she was here in our midst.

A free-spirit, a deeply reflective and kind soul, Julie had a textured and complex personality. That impish quality that was so evident in her early life was a quality she always had. This made her a fun friend to have and the very best auntie to her beloved nieces and nephews. She lit up every room she entered and her moves on the dance floor were amazing. If her favorite song “Footloose” from her favorite movie was playing she would dance with abandon. That is why so many never knew of the tortured moments she had when bi-polar disorder would rob her of happiness when she sank into deep depression. She would become opaque and unknowable during these times. She wanted it way. She didn’t want others to know how she suffered.

Julie was courageous.

She was once described to me as a valiant warrior against the mental illness that did not define her life, but did impact her is devastating ways.

When she was eighteen she had her first bout with severe depression. She fought a battle with depression her entire adult life. Her mood disorder sometimes caused her to be moody, distant, troubled, detached, insecure. Her moods were overwhelming to her and to others.

Still, she showed up.
She was independent, and wise, and trustworthy.

She was smart, imaginative, logical.

She was a very hard worker and was a valued employee.

She earned a B.A. in English.

She loved to read.

Her favorite author was Virginia Woolf.

She kept journals.

She liked to write and was an excellent writer.

On this day, the day of her birth, I celebrate the gift this beautiful soul was to my life. I celebrate and honor the life she lived in the face of so much pain and yet was also marked by so much joy. I give thanks for the bond we shared, one that began the first time I held her in my arms. She was the one who so often was there with an arm protectively draped on my shoulder. I hear her voice now calling me “mamacita,” her little mama. I think of the long talks we had about her school work, the books she was reading, her thoughts on equity and social justice, or maybe they were painful talks about guys who were breaking her heart.

I remember the last time I went on a long walk with her and Amy. They were training for some race, so I walked along as they slowly jogged beside me until we came to the place where they were going to speed up. Julie said, “Mom, when you get tired, just turn around and go back to the car. We’ll probably catch up with you before you get there, but we’ll be back for you, Mom.” I see her running on ahead with her long athletic legs and remember her words. She was always so protective and loving towards me.

After her death, I was grateful she never knew how her death shattered my heart. Comfort came from knowing that as much as I loved her, I knew that my God loved her more and that she was in a place where there are no more tears.

Sometimes, I have times when I’ve wondered how the hope and the promise that a mother has when she first cuddles new life placed in her arms after birth of a child can withstand the the loss of of hope and promise that comes with the death of that child. There are no human answers for such loss.

Lament of this magnitude yields to a new kind of hope, a supernatural hope, the kind that comes from not from within and is not bound by dreams to be fulfilled in this lifetime. It is a deep and abiding peace filled hope that has come as a grace as I have mourned for loss of this beautiful life. Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Comfort is supernaturally given by the Shepherd of my soul.

Life, faith, and hope all shift and take on new meaning after great loss. They are no longer theological concepts, nor are they words on the page of the Bible. I did not hold on to my faith when Julie died, it held me. My hope shifted from all the hope I had for her life to a new and living hope, one that assures me “my hope comes from him. He is my rock…he is is my fortress.”

The birth of Julie and her life is celebrated on this day.

Loving her, celebrating her, is something I still get to keep doing.

I don’t think birthdays are celebrated in heaven because remember, heaven is not time bound.

On this day when I celebrate your birth and life Julie, I think of you as now truly being ageless, timeless. I am grateful that you are free from pain and all that kept you bound while you were on this earth. I celebrate the miracle of you and all the joy and love and that you brought to those that continue to love you with an everlasting love.