Vol. 20 No. 49 | December 10, 2018
On Decembereight, 54 years ago on the day of writing, mama lost her battle with cancer,but won her ultimate victory over death. She was forty-four. I was eleven.
There were no photographers recording the events of that day. There were no news stories reporting her death. There is no video I can watch to recall that day and the days leading up to it.
We knew the day was coming, at least intellectually. But I certainly didn’t understand how I would feel when the day came. I had never done well being away from my mom for even a short period of time.
My memories of that day have always been vague. At some point before, my Dad took my older brother and I to see her at the hospital so she could tell us she was dying. I remember crying as we left the hospital, but I don’t remember what happened next or how many days that was before she died.
When the day came, I remember seeing my sister and brother-in-law’s car parked outside my aunt and uncle’s store and getting off the bus to go see them. I had no idea that instead of sitting and enjoying my usual coke and candy bar, I would be asked to sit down in one of the chairs in the front part of the store and hear the news that Mama had died.
I remember leaving the store and going to our house. I remember getting out of the car and my uncle putting his arm around my shoulders, walking me out to the big oak tree in our front yard, and saying, “Son, it’s okay to cry. Just let it out.”
And with his arms around me, I did. I don’t know how long we stood there, but I remember him saying at some point, “This is going to be really hard for your grandmother, so when we go in there be as strong as you can…for her.” I don’t remember if I was. In fact, I don’t remember much after that, except a foggy image of an endless line of people streaming by her casket two days later.
I can remember how kind my math teacher was when it came time for report cards and the kindness of our neighbors and my parents’ friends who brought food to our house. I remember hearing people say what a good woman my mom was and why they felt that way about her. I remember how difficult it was for my dad, who suddenly had to take care of three boys on his own. And I vaguely remember thinking how much my sister, who had a baby of her own, would miss her.
Sometimes it haunts me that I can’t remember more details about my mom, that day, or period of my life. I’ve depended on my brothers and sister to help fill in the gaps. But I can’t even remember much of what they’ve shared, other than how good it is when we are together sharing memories.
But overall, the essence of my memories about my mom is the example she set by the way she lived her life. And I’m so grateful that my family is doing our best to continue that heritage of faith for our children and grand-children (five who happen to be my beautiful granddaughters). I remind myself how God has sustained me for these last 54 years by providing multiple substitute mothers for me.
There are countless times I’ve wished I could have a conversation with my mom. But I quickly remind myself that having a conversation with her is nothing compared to her being free of pain and with the Lord.
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Let this season be a time to remember the people you’ve loved and those who have loved you. I hope those memories bring thoughts of joy, peace, and love.
And most importantly, remember to express your love to those who are still with you.
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