Life Without Mother

(It’s parody and not plagiarism if I change a one word, right? Just in case, no, this is not the tale of the Civil War as written by Irene Hunt, titled Across Five Aprils, though perhaps it is a tale of many battles.)

The past five Aprils have been a month of riding an emotional rollercoaster. From the first day, an awareness of all the “lasts” and the Facebook mems popping up and the timeline countdown. I believe I have described in a prior letter how before Mom died, my birthday being at the end of the month produced a excited build-up of anticipation throughout the duration of my birthday month, and after she died that excitement became more under the guise of anxiety as the month would drag on. I won’t repeat myself, but want to share that this — the sixth — April has differed. The past three weeks have been an emotional rollercoaster; however, this one was marked by much joy and little-to-no thought of the prior weight of this month. (Most of the stressful moments have been more work/ministry related with all of our busyness this month.)

Alas, April hit last night. And today. A week away. And it all comes crashing down. The memories. The loss. The grief.

The loss…

As a Christian, the default is often to comfort with “they are not lost to us — we know where he/she is, because we are all found in Christ” — or something to that effect. I have even said these things myself, regarding my own grief, as though to comfort myself with the “truth”. Perhaps you are raising your eyebrows and poising your lips, ready to protest my use of quotations around that word as though it were being used to imply that the sentiment is false. Well, I would say that the sentiment, though absolutely true, does also dismiss the loss that all people experience when facing the physical death of a loved one.

Sure, I know exactly where my mother is — she is even now singing the praises of the Lord God Almighty who is even now sitting on His throne in glory and majesty — oh, how I long to see it with my own eyes! But, I digress. My mother is in Heaven, where I know I will see her again. But, there is still loss. Those things about her that I lose every day.

The loss of her touch. We used to make a point to hug at least once a day. I remember a few times I would come home from school, and she may be in the middle of something in the kitchen (perhaps in those moments of busyness it would have been more considerate to wait), and I would remind her, “hey, we haven’t hugged today” and proceed to hug her. When I reached ninth grade, I was officially the height that I could hug her around her shoulders or we both do the over-one-shoulder-and-around-the-side mutual-height hug — that was an exciting time for me. I felt grown, but the height didn’t change the security I felt being hugged by her. When I felt like I was falling apart, one hug from her felt like the glue putting me back together. I think my touch-meter is broken now. Since my move to NYC (in the middle of COVID, no less), there have been few opportunities for expressing love through physical touch. Even when I went to college I was known for my hugs, and now here, my inclination is now to shy away from touch. And yet I crave it. (Which is why I am ever so thankful that the Lord has provided through church in the past year a sweet friend who is also a hugger-to-the-max.)

The loss of her scent. This, after touch, is the second to lose. Touch is lost the moment life has left the body. The scent fades slowly. Almost as though to tease that her presence remains. Yet, it is only a slim shadow that eventually is lost, and lost until that joyful reunion. It’s this sensory trigger for comfort, the reminder of that touch as those hugs included the intake of that unique scent. I took many tops (sweatshirts and shirts) from her closet. Although many of them retained her scent even after washing (don’t worry, I do wash them as I wear them), they couldn’t cling to it forever and now they carry my own scent. A box of her things I saved in the closet clean-out are still in a sealed box in Dad’s shed, to be opened at a later time when needed. I’ve only opened it twice, so as to maintain the scent as long as possible. It’s been five years since those things were placed there — it may already have faded. Perhaps there is a metaphor here in the progression of grief — even as the scent has a slow fade, the ache of grief, when experienced and expressed in a healthy manner over time, has a slow fade. There are hints of it and moments of overwhelming exposure, but then it’s less and less.

The loss of her voice. In today’s technological society, it is much more difficult to completely lose the sound of someone’s voice (or their appearance). However, this loss is more in regard to her reaction and response to the progression of my life (and that of our family). It’s a loss of accessibility. As I wrote in my song for her, “it’s no use to call, because [she] won’t pick up.” I can write letters and I can ask God to “tell Mom _____”, but there is no response. No new encouragement, no new wisdom, no simple enjoyment of each other’s existence and company. Sure, I could tell you what she “would’ve said” to a particular situation. And, because of the blessing of our relationship before she died, I would likely be right (especially if the proposed response is scripture — because that would be her greatest encouragement and/or wisdom). She would say Micah 6:8 covers all the bases. And if you need more than that, Philippians 4 has some good stuff.

The loss…

To deny loss as a Christian is to deny the reason we grieve. And to deny God’s permission to grieve, “not as those without hope” but as those who may grieve freely because of the hope we have. The hope in Christ and the resurrection of all the saints. That though we are all separated for this time, it is not forever. Jesus Himself said, “In this world you will have trouble.” Some may say that I am taking this out of context in that He is referring to the persecution of the saints because of the Gospel (which He totally is), but all of the trouble in this world for the saints is because of sin, because of the effects of sin. And so, even in this (some could say natural) trouble, I can cling to the promise that follows His pronouncement: “Take heart! For I have overcome the world!” He has overcome death and its effects.

As a Christian, I cry over the loss of my mother’s ready security and comfort and wisdom. It is not lost forever. But, it is lost to me for the duration of this earthly journey. And while forever makes this life seem like the blink of an eye, from my current perspective those eyelids can’t close fast enough.

Perhaps next April will come and go in the blink of an eye. There is hope in that thought as well. I don’t want to be paralyzed by grief. (And by God’s strength I am not.)

There’s only one week left to this one. Even as I listen to my worship playlist, I will end with the lyrics of a really good one by Phil Wickham: “When I fight, I’ll fight on my knees with my hands lifted high… and every fear I lay at Your feet — I’ll sing through the night: Oh God, the battle belongs to You.”

I’m all Yours, God.