Grief.

(Originally Written: 2016)

The Grim Reaper.

He knocks.

He comes. To everyone.

Of course I knew this.

Somehow, I guess I also thought I’d be ready . . . I thought I’d be prepared.

It would be expected, predicted, inevitable.

I thought it would be the one who was sick, old, and tired.

Not the one that was so much alive with so many plans and such a full life.

Not the one who prayed for me and my children every day, who knew every detail of my life, who had been with me through every moment.  Not the present one.  Not the one who walked around every day with me nestled in her heart and on her mind.

The phone rang.  It was him.  He never called.  She always called.

“She’s gone.”

What does that even mean?  How can a person be gone?  A person like THAT?

Active, never still, always caring, always teaching, always ministering, always praying, always serving, always thinking about everyone else.

That’s like saying the sun won’t rise tomorrow.  It’s like saying there is no air to breathe, no water to drink.  Ever again.

All the colors of the world went gray.  The lights went out.  The sorrow was so big I couldn’t feel it.  My heart had been ripped open and my mind went numb with disbelief.

The sudden absence of a person who had been powerful, constant, present, and influential in my life . . . the sudden absence of Mother . . .  is like falling flat on concrete . . . the wind knocked out of me. Suffocation.  Shock.  Something is broken.  

It doesn’t fit.  Nothing fits.  If she is “gone”, where am I? Who am I?

Somebody is screaming, wailing, mourning . . . me. 

It will be okay.  She will be there when I get there.  She always is.  This is a dream.

No it isn’t. 

I can’t think.  What do I do?  Why? Where do I go? How do I? I must ask her how.  I must ask her why.  I must have her tell me what to do.

Gone. Gone.

Why doesn’t she call and tell me it was a mistake?  Why doesn’t she reassure me, tell me not to worry about it?  Why doesn’t she tell everyone they were wrong and to stop fussing?

She will never be gone.  She’s the voice in my head.  She’s part of me.  It always comes back to her somehow.  Always. Her opinion or her point of view or her convictions or her way to do it . . . and she always had a way to do it!

What does she think of my grief?  What do I think of it?

I don’t even know what it is.  It is thunder.  It is rain.  It is relief.  It is fear.  It is aggravation.  It is loss.  It is strange.  It is empty.  It is full.  It is numbness.  It is pain.  It is anger.  It is screaming.  It is silent.  It is helplessness.  It is nothing.  It is everything.

She lived.  Fully.  Completely.  Never wasted a moment.  Never missed an opportunity.

She never stopped praying.  She gave and gave and gave until she was spent.

She spent herself.  Broken and spilled out.  That was my mother.

And yet, she suffered.

Was there a time I can remember that she wasn’t suffering?

And how I wanted the suffering to end.

Her grief.  Her fears.  Her anxieties.  Her broken heart.  Day in.  Day out.  Her body hurt.  Her mind hurt.  Her emotions hurt.  She just hurt.

Carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, a passion for every problem, a fire for every wrong, wanting and trying and hoping to fix the brokenness around her, and devastated by the depth of it every day.

Longing for holiness.  Agonizing over sin. Desiring perfection.

My Mother.  Jeremiah.  Weeping prophet. 

And now she had stopped hurting.  She had stopped weeping.

She was free.  From all of it.  She was free.

She was finally laughing, fully healed, strong, able to dance, no longer afraid.

I was happy for her.  But I still needed her.  I wasn’t ready.  I wasn’t prepared.  It wasn’t fair.  The timing wasn’t right.

I don’t want her to miss all that she is going to miss.

But then, she isn’t missing anything.  She is complete and whole.

How I am going to miss her.  We all will.  Forever.    

Sometimes sorrow is a visitor.

Sometimes it comes to stay.

Sorrow upon sorrow, grief upon grief, deep calls to deep.

Mourning and wasting away with tears, my soul cast down within me.

But healing belongs to my God, the Lifter of my Head.

My shattered soul, my sorrow filled heart cries out for help – oh help, oh heal, oh come.

“Be gracious to me, oh God, be gracious to me, for my soul takes refuge in You; and in the shadow of Your wings I will take refuge until destruction passes by.” Psalm 57:1

“’Teacher, do You not care that we are perishing?’  And He got up and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, ‘Hush, be still.’ And the wind died down and it became perfectly calm.”  Mark 4:38b-39

“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you.  Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.” John 14:27

And I climb the mountain of grief, and I reach the top, wading through the weariness of my tears, and He is there.  And on the other side there is healing, relief, hope, and courage to be found.  Joy, even.  Gratitude.  Understanding.  Acceptance.

His timing is perfect, His hand steady, His plans secure.  And His Presence makes life and death fit together seamlessly, so this loss is not a puzzle but part of a story

My story. And she is in it.  And I am glad.

See you soon, Momma.  See you soon.