When the Oak is Gone

When the Oak is Gone, The Sapling Sings

August 8, 2025

I’ve been thinking about my mom.
At noon I wanted to reach for the phone, the way a flower leans toward sunlight, only to remember—no voice waits on the other end. I miss her laughter, bright as wind-chimes in a spring breeze. I miss her simple, sturdy presence, like an oak that never asked to be noticed, only to be leaned against.

My heart aches.

Tonight, while the house settled into its evening hush, my son Michael prayed over me.
“God, make her a nicer person, and don’t let her argue too much,” he whispered, earnest as fresh rain.
Then—like sunrise after thunder—he praised me:
“She's the best mom ever. She cooks the best food. She makes the best cereal.”

In the dark beside him, I let silent tears stitch the pillowcase. His struggles with anger and stubbornness echo my own; he is a small, fiery mirror angled toward my thirty‑nine‑year‑old soul.

And so, with four children tugging at my hems and dreams, I’m learning to sow into him the seeds I once neglected in myself—seeds of patience, courage, and gratitude—so that resilience and gentleness will grow in him like muscle memory when the winds of disappointment rise and hard seasons come.

A Letter to My Son, in Remembrance of My Mother

Dear Fwjchim Michael Yang,

You are a diamond still wrapped in earth’s rough hands.
Your heart glints brighter than rubies and rests as pure as river-washed gold.

God knew exactly who I needed to refine me.
He handed me a mirror, said Love what you see, and called that mirror you.

It hasn’t always been easy being your mother, because so much of your fire flickers with my own sparks.
But oh, how He uses that fire to temper us both.

You are thoughtful—pausing to notice when there is sadness in the room.
You are kind—offering me the bigger half of the cookie, even when you think I’m not looking.
You are hilariously fun—you get my jokes even when it's unspoken.

You are brave with truth—unafraid to name inconsistencies with clear eyes and a steady voice.
And you are brilliant—your mind racing ahead like a kite catching every gust of possibility.

Thank you for praying for me in the quiet, for telling heaven truths about my heart I forget to see.
Thank you for your honesty, for your grace, for being exactly who you are.

I am unspeakably blessed to call you son.
And when you look at me, may you always see a mother learning—petal by petal—how to bloom the way Grandma once did.

Love always,
Mom

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