Teacher.
Principal.
Board member.
Quilter.
Volunteer.
Reader.
Traveler.
Advocate.
Friend.
Grandma.
Mom.
Wife.
For a woman that wasn’t particularly concerned about fancy titles, my mom collected a lot of them during her lifetime. And as much as she gave to each of those roles, her family was lucky enough to receive the lion’s share of her time, attention, and love.
One of my earlier memories of my mom was when I was about 5 or 6 years old. I was out riding my bike and my pants got stuck in the chain. (This was a common occurrence in the 1970’s, pre-skinny jeans) I struggled to hobble back to the house, dragging my bike with me, still attached to my pants. When I arrived at the front door, exhausted from my efforts, I realized with a bit of dread that there was a step up to the front door. Somehow, I managed to pull my bike (still attached to my pants) up the step and rang the doorbell. I was worried that when my mom answered the door she would be mad because my pants were now stained with grease and would probably have a hole in them by the time I got myself disconnected from the bike chain. When she opened the door, my mom took one look at my situation, and immediately realized I had drug my bike half a block and up a step trying to get help. But instead of scolding me for ruining my pants, as I had feared, she said “Why didn’t you just yell for me?”
The idea of yelling had never actually occurred to me. I was laser focused on getting to the doorbell before the streetlights came on, because that was the rule in our house. But as soon as she said it I realized yelling would have brought a much quicker end to my predicament.
And this was really the theme for her mothering of me. Not that I had to yell to get her attention, but that I shouldn’t worry about what it was that I brought to her. She would welcome me with open arms. She would be my advocate, my friend, and my protector in whatever life threw my way.
This was true in high school when my guidance counselor commented to me during my intake interview that my grades “weren’t quite as good as your brother, I see.” That counselor got an angry earful from my mom, I found out later.
It was true when I was in college and I had to drop out of school for a semester to have surgery. When I insisted that I could recover just fine living in the dorms, she stopped playing nice, and told me in no uncertain terms that I would be recovering at home. It was infuriating at the time, but in hindsight, probably a better plan.
When my parents’ home burned, she held me as I cried and not the other way around.
When I joined the board for Girls on the Run, she volunteered right along with me at every run.
When my kids were born she was the first one there to meet them.
When I announced my divorce, she didn’t ask questions but got busy prepping the guest room for me.
Every birthday, anniversary, graduation, or professional accomplishment was marked as an occasion with a card, a cake, a supportive email, balloons, or all of the above.
And when her cancer diagnosis came, in the midst of a global pandemic that had forced us to social distance, she held my hand and hugged me for the first time in months. As I cried, she told me that she was hopeful, but also that she wasn’t afraid to die.
Throughout my life she was the one that I yelled out to. Never once did I wonder if she would respond. It wasn’t always the answer that I was looking for, but it was always, always a response that was rooted in love. Sometimes it was hugs-and-giggles love. Sometimes it was tough love. But always love.
In the early hours of my mom’s death, I found myself yelling out yet again, but this time it wasn’t to her. It was to God. “Is she there?” I sobbed. “Is she there? Please tell me that she’s there.”
The sand beneath me had shifted and suddenly this idea of heaven seemed so far away, at the very moment it was supposed to bring me comfort. The promise of eternal life is so easy to swallow on Easter morning, in the company of other believers, singing familiar hymns, surrounded by lilies and kids in cute Easter bonnets. It’s lovely to fantasize about in general terms like “We’ll all go to heaven one day” or “Death is not the end, but just the beginning of our life with Jesus.”
But when push comes to shove and you’re alone with your own grief, staring down the death of someone you have held dear for your entire life, the questions of heaven and eternal life become painful. And personal. And frankly, a little far-fetched.
Is this seriously what we believe? Is this really true? Is this real? I want to believe but how does this whole eternal life thing work, exactly??
I would love to tell you that in that moment of spiritual despair, I heard the deep voice of God respond, “Yes, she’s home. She’s got a glass of wine in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other…it’s all good.”
But that didn’t happen. There was no flash of lightening, no mystical sign that everything was ok and that my mom had arrived safely home.
There was silence.
And in that silence was the valley. The shadow of death.
But in the days that followed, with that deafening silence and questions of overwhelming doubt swirling in my head, I became one with Mary, crying out in frustration at the death of her brother Lazurus.
I became one with the widow of Nain grieving the loss of her only son.
I became one with Jesus crying out on the cross, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”
And suddenly my despair brought me closer to God and not further away. My grief was not taken away, but I was reminded that I am not alone in this sorrow. My story is the story of grieving people from generation to generation.
Since my mom’s death, my kids and I wonder together about what heaven is really like. Each morning, as I’m drinking my coffee and they are bustling around the house getting teeth brushed and homework shoved into their backpack, one of them will stop and sit with me and ask, “I wonder what Grandma is doing this morning?”
The first day we imagined she was hugging her mom and dad. Some days we imagine she’s motoring around somewhere in a fancy new RV. Some days she’s sleeping in. Some days she’s having chocolate for breakfast. One day it was simply, “I think she’s just being proud of Grandpa because he’s learning to do things by himself.”
My friends, I don’t have the answers. I have a feeble human brain not fully equipped to fathom the magnitude of heaven. But I also had a mom who believed in miracles and taught me that we ought not be afraid to pray for them. And so my prayer is not that I would understand the mysteries of heaven, but simply that my mom is eternally enjoying them. And that her life among us will serve as a beacon of hope, love, humility and service to which we should all aspire.
And when the world overwhelms, doubt looms, and fear rises up in our hearts, let us not be afraid to yell out. Surely, He will respond in love.
