Swimming through a sea of grief

Literally a week ago from this time, I rushed over to my mom’s house so I could stay with her while my father went to the Friday night service at our church.  I knew she was gravely ill and that the end would be coming soon.  I knew that I would be moving into her house that weekend.  I sat on the sofa beside her bed after my brother and sister-in-law left and my dad went to bed.  I sat here and wrote last Friday, same as today.  Except now I no longer have a mother, just memories of her.  

There really is a grief that knows no name and can’t be described.  It is a grief that is shared by every daughter who has ever lost mother.  Like motherhood that connects women in a secret circle of sisterhood, so does this grief from the loss of a mother.  I’m not sure what to write or how to move forward.  I appear to be in a state of limbo.

My father and brother have gone to fly my mother’s body home.  I am here with my other half and children, living in her house, surrounded by her things.  Today I gave my son his first big boy towel from one of hers.  I gave my baby her special towel exclusively for his use.  I am slowly incorporating my life into hers.  Last time I was here, I was the daughter, ready to leave the nest finally in search of greener pastures so to speak.  I left home and made a nest of my own.

Not only do I feel the absence of my mother but I feel as if I’ve lost my home and everything that defined me.  I feel as if I’ve been caught up in a tornado and like Dorothy, displaced to a place that is unfamiliar and strange.  I can’t seem to get my bearings.  

I opened her armoire today and to my surprise, I could still smell her.  I told my son who stuck his face into the clothes and inhaled deeply.  For a moment, we just took in the lingering fragrance of her.  Earlier today, I had put a small dish over a cup to cover it.  My son flipped it over and said very matter-of-factly that this is how Dida did it.  Like I should know better.  So many little things.  The baby looks for her.  Last night he went through the entire house looking for her and hid in the corner when he couldn’t find her.  

At her funeral, my oldest wanted to see her old body.  He was curious.  He said she was in heaven and didn’t need the old body with the cancer anymore.  We all placed a rose in the coffin with her.  They will have dried up by the time she is actually buried.  Even the baby placed a rose in there with her.  He looked happy to see her body but a little puzzled why she was lying there with her eyes closed.  When we got home, he kept calling for her.  In the end, he kept asking for his Dadu. 

I thought I knew heartbreak.  I didn’t know anything until now.  

My mornings are full of short burst of energy.  Then I lose steam.  No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to move past this grief.  My other half says that I need to stop fighting the grief because ultimately I am fighting myself.  I don’t understand that.  I don’t think I’m fighting the grief, I am just tired of it.  I want to find that ever elusive life line and pull myself forward.  My life isn’t over.  My sons still have their mother.  I need to find the strength to move forward.  I just haven’t the foggiest idea how.  

I am grateful for all those who came by for show of support for us.  For those who have brought food, I am most thankful because I haven’t found the energy to cook.  I tried earlier today.  The only reason my sons had food today was because of the leftovers.  I am thankful to my aunt and uncle because through this, without them, I’m not sure I we would have gotten through.  Somehow, their loving support lessened the blow of the loss of my mom.  Just not completely.  

This has put a lot of things in perspective.  I think I have less patience than I did for the things in life which matter next to nothing.  I have let go of things which are seemingly superficial, like my fear of failure.  My mother believed I had changed.  She felt hope for my future.  I am choosing to embrace her belief and hope.  

I’m not sure how to get up and get going again.  So I’m going to keep writing until maybe somehow, the words pull me out of this grief.  I hope. 

Eulogy delivered at my mother's going home service

The first night I spent with my mother at the hospital over five weeks ago she said to me that when she was pregnant with me, she prayed for a daughter.  She said growing up, she never had the chance to play with dolls.  So I was her doll, she said.  I understood in that moment why she dubbed my first apartment the doll’s house.  

We spent a lot of time talking when she had the strength or was in the mood. It was the only time she couldn’t do anything but lie there and just hang out with me and I was the only one who was insane enough to drop all my responsibilities and just sit with her for hours.  It was the first time in my life I ever had frank intimate conversations with my mom.  I opened up my heart and told her things that I never imagined saying to her.  I felt regret at first for not having had this connection with my mother sooner.

When she first came to this country she left behind her home, family, and church.  She followed my dad and adapted to a whole new lifestyle.  My mother was a lady through and through and they just don’t make them like that anymore.  She believed in proper behavior and etiquette.  She used to say that you’re a woman, no one should know you were ever there.  Meaning, don’t leave behind a mess.  She used to tell me to cover up too.  Then she’d buy me clothes that didn’t really cover up things the way she thought they ought to.  I never understood that.  As you can see, save for my accessories, I’m still wearing her clothes.  Yes, I’m 36 and my mother still dressed me.  

She was the first of our family who came to ICC nearly 17 years ago.  Before then, she could be found sitting with her bible reading and praying every day. She was the one who brought us home.  Both my brother and I got married in this church.  My sons’ were dedicated in this church.  This was her home as it was ours.  This was our family and she brought us here.

The last two and a half months were the most spiritually intense moments of my life.  The last time I attended Sunday service, not counting the day after her death was her first Sunday home, June 15^th, the day after my brother’s birthday.  I remember coming here and sitting in the back with my family.  I looked up and the space next to my dad was empty.  I had an intense urge to see my mother so I left my kids with their father and went to see her.  I sat beside her and we prayed.  From that moment on, every Sunday was more or less spent with her.  

After she came home from the hospital, my brother wanted her to go to church but I could tell she was too weak to leave the house.  That Sunday, we had Holy Communion at home because she couldn’t go to church for communion.  The next Sunday, again I stayed with her and it was the Sunday her son went on vacation.  The Sunday after that, I was back again and this time she kept asking me when my brother was coming back.  She asked me to bring her grandsons, she wanted to see them.  I did.  My brother came home and saw her.  She didn’t make it to the next Sunday.  

The time I spent in her presence was so peaceful and it filled me with such hope that I couldn’t understand it.  That last Sunday, as I drove home, tears streaming down my face, I knew that I had to let her go.  What I didn’t understand is, how was it possible that I could have such sense of hope and peace when the word God spoke into my heart was that I needed to let her go.  

Once before, God gave me a word that she needed to seek treatment and he would take care of the rest.  I could be angry or bitter but later I understood that it was never for the cancer.  It was for the pneumonia.  If she hadn’t gotten treatment for that, we never would have had those moments in the hospital.  She said that she had been worried about me but she had seen that I had changed.  

I did change.  She changed my life in a way that I had never imagined.  God opened the doorway to heaven for her to pass into eternity.  She stayed in that opened doorway and let me rest there with her, basked in his presence.  That Saturday after she went home, I’m not sure which was worse, losing her or being shut out of that powerful godly presence that seemed to hover around her.  

My mother was a woman of faith.  Every breath she took, every word she uttered, every step, every moment of her life can be measured by her faith.  The Saturday before she died, as I was driving home, barely able to see the road for my tears, Chris Tomlin’s “Whom Shall I Fear? (God of Angel Armies)” came on the radio.  The next day when I arrived to see her she was struggling, anxious from fighting for breath. I turned on the radio for her.  The same song came on and I saw her, silently raising her hand and then to the best of her ability, she quietly sang along with it.  In that moment, I clearly saw this woman who brought me into this world and was about to leave me here.  This faith is my legacy, I could either accept and embrace it and let her go or spent the rest of my life feeling lost in a sea of grief.  

If you don’t mind, I’ve tasted grief and it is bitter.  I will take the hope she left me.  Because one day I will see her, and we will rejoice together in the arms of Jesus.  I am my mother’s daughter.  However, I am not as good at signing as she was, so I would like to ask my dear friend Nicole to help me leave you with this song that will always have such a special meaning for me.

Whom Shall I Fear (God of Angel Armies) 

Living Without You: Day 2

I woke up this morning missing you.  My morning started in tears.  I couldn’t stop them if I tried.  I have never experienced this fathomless void that seems to exist inside of me.  My only consolations seems to come from the words that appear on the screen as if by typing them into existence, I can slowly allow some of this grief to bleed out of me. Funny how I remembered this song just in that moment when my grief was so overwhelmingly great.

Chris Tomlin - I Will Rise

I never realized how much of me is from you.  My words are my only source of solace.  The words of others seem to just fall against the surface of my conscious and settle around me like the perpetual dust cloud that exists around Pig Pen from the Peanuts.  There are people in your house.  I saw a face appear from memory today.  It was a face I hadn’t seen in a very long time.  Somehow, the way he materialized, your cousin, just broke me in two.  

Dad said to get ready for your memorial service.  He’s busy making preparations for your final arrangements.  I’ve got nothing.  I can’t even go to see you put into the ground at your final resting place.  I’m going to ask Dad to build a prayer garden by your final resting place.  Grace Cottage should have a prayer garden.  Maybe one day I can go see your house and take your grandsons there.  I wish I could have gone with you.  I really wanted to you know.  

Life will never be the same.  All these wonderful people move about your house taking care of us.  They are so wonderful.  Kakima is doing a great job taking care of all of us.  My son told me today in church that he already knows you’re not in church today because you’re in heaven.  He then took my face in his hands and looked me straight in the face and said to me that one day I’ll get to see my mom and then I’ll get to be with her forever. 

We were never the hugging kind.  But I would give anything to feel your presence next to mine.  Or even in the same room as you.  How is it possible to hurt this much and does it ever stop?  I was ok yesterday.  I was happy.  How am I crippled today by this grief I can’t contain?  I’ve taken to hiding in the bathroom, away from everyone just so I can be alone with my computer.  I have to give it up soon so your son-in-law can design your memorial service slides. 

I’m glad that God gave you me for a mother.  I just wish He’d give me something to help me get through this grief.  I chose your casket, your flower arrangements, your clothing, your prayer cards, but I won’t see you put away into the ground.  I can’t.  I saw them take away your body.  I know you weren’t in it anymore.  Your spirit was gone.  And I am alone.  That is the greatest tragedy of my life. 

You know, last night I tried to explain something to Dad.  I don’t know if he got it.  I think you’re the only one who understood.  It’s as if for the last two and a half months a doorway to heaven was open and you had been standing in the doorway.  The presence of God had to be very powerful around you because in your weakened state, I saw you minister to everyone around you.  For those moments, I got to be your armour bearer.  You drew your strength from me.  I don’t care if no one believes me, I was there, and I know what happened between us. 

When I left you at midnight, you were nearly gone weren’t you?  The essence of you had already left your body.  When I came back, after your passing, it felts as if that doorway that had been open for two and a half months was closed shut.  I felt like those foolish virgins in that bible parable.  The bridegroom was gone.  I’m not sure what I miss the most, you or the presence of God that you carried all your life. 

“I know who goes before me

I know who stands behind

The God of Angel Armies is always by side

The One who reigns forever

He is a friend of mine

The God of Angel Armies is always by side”

Chris Tomlin’s Whom Shall I Fear (God of Angel Armies)