It's a Funny Thing About Dying

Mom
Photo taken at my
nephew's wedding.

"It's a funny thing about dying," my mom said to me from her new Lazy Boy recliner as we sat watching the Hallmark Channel on the big-screen television in her room at the assisted living center. She'd been living at Lavender Hills for two months or so, needing the extra hospice care that none of us kids -- not even my brother the doctor and his wife the nurse -- could safely provide any longer.

"Well, this is gonna be a fun conversation," I thought wryly to myself.

"How so?" I asked Mom, turning to face her as nonchalantly as possible. It was the first time she'd broached the subject of her dying in such a matter-of-fact way, and I wanted to give her a chance to complete her thought. I was also curious to know what could be so funny about...dying.

"Well," she said, "You know how sometimes people who are OLD [Mom never considered herself to be OLD, even though she was 92] or really SICK [She didn't consider herself to be sick, either, though her list of ailments and medications was on the impressive side] sometimes say things like 'Why am I still here?' or 'Why can't I just go?' or 'When is this going to be over?'"

"Yes?" I responded.

"NOT ME!" she exclaimed vehemently, and then she gave me one of her biggest, spunkiest smiles. We laughed together. We loved laughing together. My mother was a fighter, a survivor. But that most unnatural of things, separation, was nearing inexorably.

Three weeks later, she was gone. Inexplicably, confoundingly, absolutely gone.

It's a hard thing to lose your mother. I was, surprisingly, completely unprepared for what it would feel like, the sense of loss and longing and cut-off-ness. It took me off-guard, and I am utterly bereft in a way that is surreal. A shock to my system.

My mother was a force to be reckoned with, but my brothers and I knew that she was hopelessly devoted to us. Naturally, I was her favorite. Well, I was her favorite daughter (and signed my cards to her that way). My older brother was also her favorite. And so was my younger brother. She loved us deeply and completely, but quietly. She was always supportive of us, even if she disagreed absolutely with what we were doing or saying or...thinking. She seemed always to know what I was thinking! And maybe that was because she saw a lot of herself in me.

Mom was a wise and caring person who offered an opinion when asked but didn't impose her considerable will on others. Her advice was grounded in Scripture and based on long years of experience and observation. I can't say it was always perfect, but I can say I did better when I heeded it than when I didn't.

Mom was kind, and she was gentle (in an Italian sort of way), and she was fun. She was a devoted wife and a loving mother and a proud grandma and a caring friend. Her smile lit up the room, and her laugh was infectious. She believed in the goodness of God and in His care and concern for those she loved. He was her rock and her strength. She found peace in Him that carried her through the many years of her life, in the good times and in the not-so-good times.

I miss her. I will miss her until I see her again. That's the hope I have, and that's why I don't grieve in the same way as those who have no hope. I know she's having the time of her life in the presence of the Lord. I know that my Redeemer lives. And because He lives, she lives. And so will I.

Rest in peace, Mommy. I love you. (And I can almost hear her whisper, as she did the last time I saw her, "I love you, too.")

Other posts about Mom:  If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy;  For Mom