This Saturday will be a year since mom passed away. Sometimes it seems longer, sometimes it doesn’t. It feels like walking a distance through the mud where it feels like you’ve been going forever, yet you turn around only to see you’ve not gone that far. That’s kind of what life is like with grief. As you carry it, life goes on but the weight of it slows you down. Doing anything seems like a chore.
Grief also comes in waves. Just like the ocean, it catches you off guard. It’ll knock your legs out from under you, leave you gasping for breath and then it’s gone again just as quickly as it came it. Mine often come with reminders. A conversation, a mutual like, a moment in time. Frozen Cokes are a big one for me. I used to get them on the way home from work. At the time mom was taking radiation for her cancer and it was making her throat sore. I went through drive through while on the phone and she said that sounded good. Apparently it became a new routine for her and dad after her treatments (I’m pretty sure he was sent out on some runs to the gas station as well).
I hold on to memories like this. My therapist (yep, I have one) said it’s important to keep my connection to mom through doing things to honor and remember her. Frozen Cokes are one of those things, along with music and sharing memories of mom. If you’re reading this and you’re grieving, I’d recommend doing this as well. It’s hard sometimes, but it helps.
One of the hardest parts has been the silo the grief creates. You’re surrounded by others but feel alone and isolated. Like even though they mourn with you they just don’t get it. They can’t possibly understand how you feel. My wife, my kids, they knew my mom but she was my mom. She’s always been there no matter what. I was used to her being there so the moment she wasn’t was difficult to deal with.
When mom got diagnosed with cancer in April of 2019 I made it a point to call her every day just to check in. Some days were short check ins as she was between doctors appointments and such. Other days were long conversations. I’d call her right after work or often in my in between moments. I still find myself reaching to pick up the phone in those moments. Just to hear her voice and tell her what’s new with life. I’l still make these calls to dad but it’s different. Mom was a talker. I know where I get it from.
I think what’s made all of this more difficult is the hit my faith took. Luckily my faith has been resilient, but it’s still been a struggle. When mom was diagnosed I prayed…A LOT. It seemed like she was getting better. She’d have struggles and bad days, but overall the prognosis seemed good. When I got the call that we need to come to Florida it was unexpected. I was just starting the first session of our Advent Bible study (a session which begins again tonight). I prayed my way, all seventeen hours to Florida. I prayed at the hospital, crying out to God, tears flowing for her to wake up and be well. Then she passed.
I didn’t know what to make of this. Time and time again the Bible says that God hears our prayers, that God answers our prayers. Why didn’t he answer? What did I do? Was I not good enough? Was he holding my past mistakes against me? I’ve continued to pray since then for God to just speak, but he’s been quiet. It’s caused me to question whether he’s there at all. What if when we die that’s it? What if there’s nothing else. I really struggle with the idea that when our eyes close in death that’s it. I think mostly because it makes me wonder what this life is for then. What’s the purpose, the point?
As I said, my faith is resilient. That’s thanks to my parents and grandparents. My beliefs have always been a part of my life and always will. I can’t imaging making it through life without them. All I can do is keep on believing and hoping. Praying and listening. My hope is that one day I’ll see my mom, grandma and all of the people I love waiting for me. It’s that eventually all of the bad in this evil world, the death, the disease, all of it will be over. That God will welcome us all into his kingdom and humankind will get a second chance. A do-over but this time in the presence of God.
I love and miss you mom and I can’t wait to see you again.
The Prodigal Pastor 