“Her death the dividing mark: Before and After,” writes Theo about his mother in Donna Tart’s The Goldfinch. “Things would have turned out better if she had lived. When I lost sight of her I lost sight of any landmark that might have led me someplace happier, to some more populated or congenial life.”

Life is heavy. Life is hard. Life is also incredibly busy. With the responsibilities of being a husband, the father of five, and a pastor, I don’t have much time to sit and reflect on the grief and pain within my heart. I believe this is a mercy from God because I would probably fall into despair if I spent all my time reflecting on the good old days, focusing on what I don’t have, and lamenting the death of my birth mom and my adopted mom. But I do think of them often. Whenever I fold a towel her way, make an omelet just like she taught me, wash dishes using “elbow grease,” or listen to her favorite country station, I’m reminded of Mom’s influence in my life. It’s always the little things that catch me off guard—a picture, an old friend, a familiar place.