Grieflections—Missing Mom

June 18, 2024

Dear Johnathan and Jack,

I sat at the stop sign a long time, but it wasn’t because I had to wait for any cross traffic. It was at the intersection as you’re leaving church. I’ve sat for an extra beat or two at that spot in the past while deciding whether to turn left and go the back way home, or turn right and take the main road. But this wasn’t deciding which way to go home. This was deciding whether to go home. It was after 11:00pm on Sunday night, and I had just said good-bye to you as you crowded onto the buses heading for New Mexico. All the youth were buzzing with excitement for the upcoming week at camp, and you also had the giddy eagerness of the open road ahead flashing in your eyes. I loved knowing that you were all-in to have a good time with friends getting closer to each other, God, nature, and yourself. I also had an adventure awaiting me as I would soon be heading out for a few days of quiet solitude near nature––my favorite situation to be in.

That’s why it was surprising to experience this wave of dread wash over me from behind as I wound my way out of the church’s long driveway. It wasn’t that there was anywhere else I needed or wanted to be, or could even think of going at that time of night, but the thought of returning home alone swallowed me in sadness. The busyness of our summer so far has kept us moving to the next thing quickly, and even when we went our separate ways, it wasn’t for long and there was always something needing immediate attention. Maybe it was the late hour and the quietness of the neighborhood that allowed the darkness that draped this part of the world to seep its doom into the van. I was reminded of the other time that I felt that noticeable surge of sorrow come over me since Mom’s death.

I was walking up our driveway a month ago, and felt it to be steeper than it had ever been. I had walked Grammy to her car parked on the street, and as soon as I turned to ascend the ramp to our house, I felt this strange mix of burden and relief–I wanted to be back in our house, and yet I was hesitant to get there too fast. Our house had been a beehive of activity for the previous six weeks. Ever since Mom had gone on hospice care, wave upon wave of family and friends, house guests and visitors, deliveries and gatherings, hospice nurses and medical equipment helpers, filled our home. The revolving door of loved ones and the carousel of gifts and meals and flowers and songs and cards brought refreshed encouragement like a steady water wheel of blessings throughout the day, for days and weeks. This was no doubt one of the ways God sustained our family through this time. As much as I would have preferred at times to just sit alone and be quiet, it’s as if the Spirit-led collective mind of our community knew that some combination of their need to be here and give love and our need to receive it was the best thing that could happen.

I thought of the bullet ants dance. Remember learning about those boys in Brazil whose tribe carries on their traditional rite of passage for them to become men by having them stick their hands in the mesh gloves laced with an agitated delegation of bullet ants? After they endure several minutes of the excruciating stings, the boys begin to prance around as if in a trance, limp and delirious with pain. The families gather around and grab these would-be warriors, now struggling to emerge from their childhood cocoon, propping up their drooping arms around their shoulders as they dance in a circle to the beat of the surrounding drums. They know that in that moment, the only hope of survival for these traumatized members of their community is to keep them up and moving, forcing the blood to flow and their breathing to continue. To stall out is to shrivel up and die. To push through, even if it requires getting pulled along by everyone else pushing through, is to not only survive this ordeal, but to emerge on the other side of it better off –– not just socially, as these boys will now be accepted as men among the tribe, but also physiologically and practically, as now they will be better able and willing to withstand the dangers of the jungle where they must bravely venture to provide food for their families. Boys, we were bitten by the bullet ants of Kathy’s death, and the hot venom of sadness could be enough to ruin us, and the neurotoxins of loss could do us in. But thank God we have a village who swooped in to dance with us, or dance for us when we couldn’t. Our hearts were lifted when we could not even lift our hands. But still, having your life saved is exhausting.

I was ready to rest, stop talking, stop having to be “on” to engage each different person that showed up, while simultaneously being “on” in caretaker mode as Kathy required constant presence and frequent urgent assistance. This is nothing against our people, who themselves were stepping in to take shifts and stand in all the gaps, even in ways we weren’t fully aware of. We are blessed to have such great extended family on both sides and good friends. No matter how helpful and healthy it was to host people, I was looking forward to having our house back. Not that I had any delusions that it would be back to an old definition of normal. In fact, I had already warned you a few days in advance that I anticipated the day was coming that we would look around and realize it’s just us left, and it was going to get quiet… really quiet, and we were going to have to recalibrate what our new family “normal” was going to be. And it would take some getting used to as the sadness would likely echo louder in our empty halls. So, I had both expectations in mind: relief and grief, but it did not prepare me for that Tuesday when I would have to mountain climb to get back to our front door.

Over the course of the weekend of Mom’s memorial service, the crowd thinned, family returned home, and friends got back to their lives. My Mom was the last one in town, the last one to come visit one more time to finish one more load of our laundry. When I hugged her good-bye and closed her car door, that was it. Taking that step toward the house, like pointing the van back towards home from church Sunday night, felt different. However, unlike when you turn a horse back toward the barn, which instinctively invigorates its gait, this had the opposite effect. I was surprised by this moment, even though I knew it would come. I was like the Papa Bear in that Berenstain Bears book where he ends up violating every safety tip that he was trying to teach the kids about. Here I was surprised after I told you not to be.

“Don’t be surprised.” I had given this advice to a soon-to-be-wed couple recently, trying to help temper expectations that have a tendency to build up for some couples before the wedding. I advised them, “Don’t be surprised when you are surprised by the in-over-your-head wonder and perplexity in your relationship with your spouse—the grandeur of intimate knowing in those timeless moments where the membrane between heaven and earth is euphorically thin. And don’t be surprised when you’re not surprised by yet-another-turn-of-the-crank monotony—the daily grind of carrying on together.” Marriage is a premium relationship, and every experience is amplified: the good things amaze, the bad things agonize, and the confusing things astound a bride and groom.

Death is another multiplier event, raising the stakes for how we process it cognitively and emotionally.  This is why I had counseled you after your Mom passed away to not be surprised if you get surprised by new feelings. Especially as you tried to go back to school for those remaining days, or resume otherwise normal routines, your heart will be processing things at a level your mind isn’t always aware of as it tries to stay focused on the task at hand. Then sometimes out of nowhere, due to some unexpected trigger or none at all, you might get hit by a jolt of awareness of her absence, or the sting of a memory, or the overwhelming feeling that she’s not coming back. When you feel like your boat is getting rocked, rest assured these waves are a normal and natural part of the grieving process. Don’t be surprised by them.

I also told you not to be surprised when you’re not surprised by heavy feelings all the time or at particular times. You might be calmly rowing through a smooth part of the water, and then notice someone else bobbing on the waves, sobbing. You might begin to wonder why you’re not crying like they are, or as much, or at the same things. You might doubt whether it’s appropriate to be laughing at a funny movie, or having a good time with your friends in the midst of a life-changing tragedy. Again, this is alright. We know life will go on, and we must find ways to carry on. Life is always a mix of ups and downs, tragedy and comedy. We’re not pretending nothing happened, or denying how we feel deep down inside. Don’t be surprised when nothing surprises you.

We’re not keeping score by these swings of emotion. But neither should we be passively tossed and turned by them. Just as it would be unhealthy to get stuck in a state of despair, it would be unhelpful to glide along from one distraction to the next without ever having to engage our deeper feelings. Our life requires cycles of gravity and levity, seriousness and silliness, crying and laughing, focused attention and diffuse wandering, sadness and happiness. Allow yourself to float on these waves when they come; don’t hesitate to surf the well-timed ones, or duck-dive beneath the tumultuous ones. Always keep an eye on shore so you know when it’s time to start swimming back to where you left all your most important stuff. Allow other people to be at a different point of processing than your own. Everybody’s on their own path. Walk yours faithfully without disparaging or envying others’.

I’ve been told that there’s no set timetable for grief. The person who offered this advisory reminder meant it as an encouragement to not feel ashamed when the process drags on longer than others think it should take. But that works both ways. If there is no time table for determining when it’s been too long, then neither is there one to dictate that it’s not been long enough. In actuality, I suppose we could recognize the unhealthiness when someone “moves on” without skipping a beat, or is unable to ever move on to another beat at all. But in between these extremes, it’s difficult and probably unhelpful to make comparisons, project one’s own timetable on others, or impose artificial constraints on a process that needs to run its natural course.

Some people were amazed that you were able to still go to summer camp only a few weeks after Mom died, or couldn’t believe how we were able to still host church for those early weekends after her passing. Was this our peculiarly natural timetable or was it God’s supernatural sustaining empowerment. I think I know one reason among these other possibilities why we have found ourselves able to engage life relatively “so soon” after Mom’s passing rather than feeling the need to shut everything down on the inside and turn everything down from the outside. It has to do with how we got here.

Death is like a valley that most of us don’t pay attention to as we trek along the upper rim of our life’s path. But that precipitous drop is always there over our shoulder, even if it is sometimes hiding in the fog. Most young people who haven’t had any experience with death, or those who do everything in their subconscious power to distract themselves from it, don’t realize that mortality is never too far away from all of us. One heartbeat, one breath, one inch is all it takes.

When someone dies unexpectedly, it’s like they suddenly fall off the cliff, and take you with them. Perhaps they lost their footing or there was a narrow, eroded part of the trail no one saw coming. You’re minding their own business, and then whoosh! –– tumbling down the bank in virtual free fall until you crash at the bottom. Somewhere beneath the kicked-up dust and debris, when you come to your senses, you realize your loved one is gone. Poof! No last words, no final conversation, no chance to apologize, tie up loose ends or prepare. Here one minute, gone the next. In those disorienting catastrophes, it can take a long time afterwards to make sense of anything, sort through the experience, regain one’s bearings, and resume forward progress. This is a violent fall, usually resulting in injuries that never quite heal back the same.

This was not our experience with Mom. Instead, about seven years ago when Mom was diagnosed with cancer, we were ushered over to the edge of the cliff and given a glimpse of the valley below and told that our trail would reroute now, and in all likelihood lead all the way to the bottom. We began climbing down the precipice on this zig-zagging trail of switchbacks deep into the foggy canyon below. We didn’t know how long it would take us to reach the floor. We always held out hope that it wouldn’t actually end there. Sometimes the trail would level out and it didn’t seem that bad. And other times, the trail turned back uphill and we thought we might make it back to the top and maybe get the chance to resume life as we knew it. But then another switchback would pivot, winding us back around and farther down, insisting that healing was not available yet. And so it went, lab after lab, scan after scan, treatment after treatment. Walk. Switchback. Keep walking. Switchback.

We had nearly seven years of hiking together: talking, sharing, enjoying what we could. At each turn in the trail, we recalibrated our expectations, recalculated our route, and acclimated to the new lower altitude. We carried on with sweet songs and silly stories. Toward the end, Mom didn’t feel like talking much, so sometimes we marched in silence. Eventually she couldn’t hike any more on her own, and we had to carry her. This made our footing unstable and slowed our pace, but we didn’t mind because more than anything we just wanted to be together. When we got close to the bottom, a medical team was waiting for us to take her the rest of the way. By that point, her eyes were closed and she wasn’t responding to anything. Her worn-out body had aged decades for years, now winding down its final cycles on its way to shutting down. By the time we took one more step and looked around, we were at the bottom. She was gone.

The floor of death’s valley is unpleasant, whether you got there by cataclysm or process. Those who plummeted from the top and found themselves suddenly missing their departed loved one were spared the grueling process of the gradual descent, but they are reeling from shock. Those of us who took the long way down were allowed bonus steps on borrowed time, and each one carried the tangled burdens of joy in the moment while knowing it could be your last.

Of course, no matter how long the route was extended, there’s still that last switchback that takes you to the bottom and takes her away–she is there one moment, and then no longer the next. Going from 1 to 0 is worse than going from 7 to 6, even though the absolute value of the difference is the same. One of God’s merciful provisions in this case is that we were prepared. No doubt there are things I still wish we could have, should have, and would have done or done differently, but on the whole, we were adequately ready. In fact, by the time we got to the valley floor, Kathy was so miserable and desiring to pass on into God’s presence, her departure was something of a relief–a merciful release from her bondage to disease, discomfort, pain, and exhaustion. She only wished her death wouldn’t make us sad. There’s no avoiding that, I’m afraid. I am sad. I’ve been sad for a long time. No matter how long it takes you to get to the point of departure, you’re still sad when they’re gone.

The non-shocked sort of sadness doesn’t kick up as much dirt when you step onto the hot dry valley floor, compared to landing there from a great height. We are able to look around and take stock. We are able to acknowledge that this mile marker signals the end of a long journey. But standing here on this ground, at this elevation, below the cloud-line, we look around and see we are surrounded by gentle slopes in the near distance, and behind that, grand ridge lines running upward toward sharp peaks. And we wonder when and where the new beginning is. In many ways, it is upon us, it has begun, it begins here, ready or not.

But for just a moment, come, let us rest our legs. Ours is a strange mix of fatigue and relief. We are relieved knowing Mom is experiencing relief from the burden of disease, and we also experience that uncomfortable relief of our own as the ones who were carrying her load, caring for her, and accommodating her needs. It was a burden gladly born, as long as we would have been allowed to bear it; but even the strongest back that refuses to buckle while bearing the load, easily crumbles when the weight is lifted. We are weary. Your hearts, and minds, and bodies have born a grown-man-size burden in your adolescent backpacks. Let us rest here tonight. The morning will bring fresh light on our path and we’ll be able to check our map. Tonight, we need to make sure we replenish and rehydrate. Change your socks so a fresh dry pair can help our blisters begin to heal into calluses. And as we sit at this campfire for the night, consider the horizon. Look to the hills, all around us, still silhouetted against the starlit sky. 

The mountain range beckons as your next adventure. And you’ll be a much more experienced climber now. As one of the rare hikers your age who can see the Thestrals, you will not hike with the typical naiveté regarding our mortality, or the delusions of guaranteed happy endings. Rather, you’ll have the wisdom of one who has seen over the edge, and the compassion of one who has camped on the valley floor. You’ll understand the justice required of trail etiquette, and the mercy shown by bearing another’s burdens on the way. You’ll have the courage of one who has pushed through adversity and reached the destination, and the temperance of one who knows to––and how to––enjoy each step of the journey that offers glimpses of the good, true, and beautiful. You’ll know the hope that sustains frailty by seeing every milestone not just pointing forward, but upward. You’ll understand the Spirit that inspires one more step and the faith that fortifies for one more day, and you’ll recognize the love that turns every hike into quality time with your people. There’s so much to look forward to.

Every once in a while, glance behind you, up at those switchbacks that fade back up into the clouds. Remember it took you almost half your life at this point to get down them. As you turn back around to face the future, scanning the panorama of the plateau and its grand vistas beyond, consider the exhilaration of your next expedition. Yes, there are crags and crevices, clefts and cliffs, and sure, some of those dark spots on the horizon may signal the next valley of death. But that doesn’t change anything. They were always there; now you know what they are. In everything, God is with you. Nothing can separate you from Him, neither death nor life, steep climbs or easy strolls, known dangers and unknown risks. Just keep walking. Go with God.

I will as well. Eventually. I just don’t know where, or when. I suppose this is where I’m struggling. I believe everything I said to you just now, and believe it equally applies to me. I just may need a little extra time getting geared up for the next leg. You two have your whole life ahead of you; a big part of mine is behind me. I lost my journey partner, my lifetime traveling buddy. We had been hitched and hiking together for over 25 years–nearly 30, if you count from when we first met. That’s well over half my life as well. I may need to set up camp at this fire a little longer before I figure out which way to head next. Sitting alone in the quiet by the dwindling flickers of my aching soul, I also recognize anything I do is going to feel like something’s missing. Someone’s missing. Part of me is missing. So I don’t know where to go. There is nowhere to escape this uncomfortable loneliness. That’s the weight I was feeling at the bottom of our steep driveway that bright afternoon. And that’s what came over me that dark quiet night at that paralyzing intersection.

I miss Kathy
I am missing my wife
She is not with me
She’s missing from my life

My better half disappeared
The best part of me is gone
Not like I’ve lost an eye or an ear
Something’s off instead of on

I’ve lost an “I”
But I’m still here
I feel deaf and blind
Though I can still see and hear

I’m more than half empty
Nowhere close to half full
Who am I if she’s not with me
Josh without Kathy feels dull

When two become one flesh
subtracting one no longer equals one
Rending asunder what God’s enmeshed
leaves a remainder of …none

Yet some version of me is still around
All my puzzle pieces in a pile, tossed
Not that a particular piece can’t be found
Some part of all of me has been lost

Whatever is reassembled, at best
It’ll be unbalanced, incomplete
We’ll all have to settle, for the rest
of what’s left of me’s obsolete

I am missing your Mother
What’s a Father to do
when my late significant other
was like our family’s glue?

Now you’ll have to deal
with “just Josh” without her
and I know how you feel
it’s not what any of us prefer

My closet is gutted, like me
My bed’s been abandoned, too
My RSVP guests, from four to three
I think I’ll stay back, and just send two.

I’m sorry you’re stuck
with me without Mom
Am I just an old lame duck
now, sitting on a time bomb?

I’ll recover
and we’ll get by
as soon as I discover
how to make time and lame ducks fly

It’ll take some time to work it out
for my bucket’s been drained
and the bottom’s dropped out
and I can’t remember the last time it rained

But life has to be more
than the sum of its parts
Whether it’s what we abhor or adore
it’s all falling apart

As such chaos unfolds
we grasp for signs of order
does the center hold
when we’re flung to the border?

Is the core in tact
when we’ve been dragged to the edges
Can it pull you back
from life’s worst ledges?

It may feel like we’re on our own
struck down and left out
But we are not alone
nor forsaken to doubt

There is One who’s gone further down
to the depths of death and all of life’s pain
He comes on the clouds, and wears a crown
He’ll upgrade our pails, and send forth the rain.

All the puzzles, he’ll connect
All the riddles, he’ll solve
Our math equations, correct
and our errors, absolve

For when He speaks
life multiplies
Whatever was bleak
His love supplies

Sure, a big part of us is missing
The best part of me is gone
But God’s not done blessing
those who carry on

Could it be that suffering’s knife
carves deeper bowls
to be refilled in the afterlife?
Heaven only knows.

But if Christ’s joy beyond his cross
was more powerful than getting killed
Then through our lesser, momentary loss
our joy, too, shall be fulfilled.

I turned left. That night, at the stop sign. I’m partial to the back way. It’s winding and scenic. It follows the bends in Brushy Creek, even if it has to sacrifice wide shoulders and straight lines to do so. The trees lining the road stretch their branches trying to reach across to the other side, and their flickering shadows on the windshield remind us of waving fronds that announce the King has come and is coming still. Someday, this will mean rough patches are smoothed over, potholes filled, bumps leveled, and the crooked ways made straight for his ultimately triumphant re-entry. (Though I do hope those streets of gold are less like the dynamite-blasted right-of-way highways and more like those country roads that twist and ripple with the land). Somehow in the meantime, trusting Him and taking Him at His word means He will guide our feet along the narrow road, lead us through the strait passageway, and light our way along the crisscrossing paths. The adventure of faith is a good fight; it is not safe or for the faint of heart. We aren’t spared life’s toil and turmoil; we’re just exempt from their ruinous rule over us. This life’s trails are treacherous at times, and will inevitably bring you to the brink of death––others’ and then eventually, your own. That’s why we need to know we can count on each other. 

Part of counting on each other is trusting that we’re being honest and open with each other, and that we will have compassion for each other, committed to speaking the truth in love. That’s why I’m exposing these darker recesses of my heart, in case you find in them something that relates to your own. The relentless responsibilities and the daily duties and delights of our must-go-on life require operating from the upright and brighter parts of my character. I’m praying my way through the days to be, through Christ, stability and illumination––a rock and a lighthouse for you. But alongside that, I want you to know something of the fuller range of my feelings because I don’t want you to mistake my Spirit-dependent attempts to be strong and courageous and my God-galvanized gumption to carry on, for callousness toward my own sorrow, nor obliviousness to yours. 

When I said that part of me is missing, I know that part of you is missing as well. You’re missing your Mom. That’s a big deal. The two most fundamental human relationships are husband-wife and parent-child. Of course there are other important relationships for flourishing (like siblings and friends!), but every single person you meet is the offspring of a man and woman. So for us to be sitting here missing my wife and your mother is a deep cut to our human experience. 

And yet there is a relationship even more fundamental to our existence. Before any of us were married, and before any of us were born, we were the created beings of Life Himself, and in Christ–– if we can make sense of this mysterious mixed metaphor, we are the children of God the Father, and the bride of Jesus the Son. Nothing in life––not even death, can cut that deep or take that away. Every other parent and spouse eventually dies. Everything we come to love in this life goes away. It all slips through our grasp and fades from our view, just as we will from others’ someday. Nevertheless, somehow the inevitability of death and the ubiquity of deterioration does not alleviate the hurt when it actually happens to our loved ones. 

Perhaps that’s a clue for us. How does decay and dying––something so normal and such a natural part of the cycle of life feel so agonizingly abnormal and unnatural? Is everything we care about a cruel joke? Is everything good a lost cause? Or does desiring the right things mean the final punchline and ultimate effect is yet to come?  Could it be that the sting of death that the mercy of God spares us from is not its discomfort now, but its destruction later? What if the pain we feel now points to the original design from which it must have deviated, and is therefore indicative of the pleasure we will feel later, but multiplied for having experienced it? What if the deepest craters carved into this old land become the mountain peaks in the new sky when Jesus puts everything right-side up?  What if what we lose in this life, we gain in the next, a hundredfold? What if what we love on earth becomes eternally lovable in heaven? What if that which is sown as perishable is raised imperishable? What if death is swallowed up in life, and our bodies and our beloved’s will be transformed from glory unto glory, by grace upon grace? What if what is burned and buried today bursts forth in bountiful beauty tomorrow?

I’m treading in the realm of the unknown here. All I can do is take my cues from the one person who conquered death and set in motion a path for us to be, like Him, more than conquerors. In Christ, we trust that we have not lost all, though we have lost much. He weeps for the real loss we experience now, and He rejoices for what new realities we shall gain, in due time. 

Meanwhile, it’s OK to be OK, and carry on. It’s OK to not be OK and wonder deep down how you will. In this life we will have trouble, but let us take heart. He has overcome this troublesome world. Let us not mistake steadfastness for glibness, nor sadness for unreliableness. To carry on is not to move on as though nothing has changed, nor does pausing a little longer at a stop sign mean getting stuck as though everything has. 

So, what will change and what will stay the same? Another part of counting on each other is having some sense of what remains a constant and what variables we’ll need to solve for. Having Mom as long as we did was long enough to require some major resetting now that she’s gone. Some things will have to change, yet some things, on principle, will remain. Kathy and I were faithfully and happily married, which meant that the love we had for each other as husband and wife also was love for you as your Mom and Dad. We loved each other so much, and we loved each of you so much. By God’s grace, Mom and I provided a stable home as steady parents with a solid marriage. We were far from perfect, yet you never had to worry about whether Mom and Dad loved each other, or if one of us wasn’t coming home. We always came home. We always come home. Well, that is, until it’s time to go Home. She and I were locked in for life. Not until death would we part.

We have now parted. She’s gone, and she took a big part of me with her. Actually, it feels like we were one at the cellular level, so she took part of all me with her. But the part of me that’s left is just as committed to providing you the stability of our family and home for the duration of your upbringing and beyond, for the rest of my life. Strange how we don’t make parental vows as explicit as marital ones. But I pledge to you my allegiance, and that remains as solidly true as ever, despite being surrounded by heartbreak. That’s the point of such promises, right? For better or worse, in sickness and health, richer, poorer, to have and to hold… all that.  I have you, and I have you. I will hold you, always in my heart even when I cannot hold you in my arms. In the same way Mom and I always came home, I, too, even though it’s just me now, will still always go home. I will be home, and I will be home––that is, provide home for you. I don’t want you to worry. I may need to take the scenic route solo from time to time, as might you,  but these roads, when driven by faith, always lead us home. 

The pack is still intact, and so is our pact: the Walkers stick together, no matter what. We walk alongside one another, come what may. Someday, the Lord will lead you to that split in the trail where you must take your own path as an adult, and chart your own territory, maybe with a family of your own. Until then, as long as God wills us more time together, let us walk together––by faith, together, Walkers. Vamanos con Dios, mi hijos!

I love you with every bit of the Josh-and-Kathy love I’ve got,

Dad