One thing that helps with my grief is to write about it; to both explore the nuances of pain and mystery, and to share those things with others. Like on at least two occasions previously, where a single life event has changed the course of my life, this too has that same effect.
Life has never been like it is right now and it will never be like it was when Mum was here.
This is NOT to say that it’s all doom and gloom; it’s just me saying that the person who brought me into the world, the person who believed in me every step of the way, the one who disciplined me and loved me with the truth for my own good every single day of my life until the recent days, is gone. I’ve never lived any of my days without my Mum being physically alive before.
I know there will be many reading this who will really understand, those who have lost a parent, and who will attest to the hole that a parent’s loss leaves in oneself. Frankly, I’m pleased for this, as a funeral celebrant myself, what I’ve experienced this week is almost essential life experience for a funeral celebrant.
On the night before Mum’s funeral, we as a family could not have done better in standing together and in planning a wonderful send-off for the matriarch of our family. We’ve been together constantly every day deciding each decision together, imagining what Mum would like, and dividing the responsibilities in a way that could only please her. We’ve stood by Dad and cried and laughed with him. As a family we are all so grateful for the legacy both Mum and Dad leave in showing us how to love with a love that loves mercy and walks humbly.
Knowing that life will never be the same again is on the one hand a tragedy, yet on the other hand says so much for a love that makes a huge impact both in life and death.
During the week we have reflected on so many beautiful messages of how Mum has touched others’ lives, and each of these touches us, because we notice how much impact Mum has made by her just being her.
Personally, I have not tried to keep up and communicate back to people with the majority of these messages, simply because the focus this week has been on one thing and one thing only, and that is to plan the best funeral possible, and in doing so spend time with precious family and affirm one another in our love.
I think there is so much wisdom in grieving as a whole family for the complete week after a loved one’s death. I’m sure many of us have been tempted to try and integrate our grief into the flow of our hectic lives, but at least in the present time, our family has genuinely enjoyed doing this for Mum together.
One thing for sure, once the dust settles, and we are back into the swing of ordinary life, I feel quite certain that the thought of Mum and her memorial presence with us will be the key difference of what life was like beforehand and what life’s like now.
All this is a reminder not to take a moment for granted, because in the moment we take for granted is the stuff of life that really counts. But the strangest thing about all this is that we are bound to take life for granted, because life is full of mundane moments, and those mundane moments only take on the significance from the view of hindsight having lost someone special. Now I look back on my activities of writing during the days that would now be Mum’s last, and wonder, “What was I thinking? I was clueless about what was coming.” Yet, I was getting on with my life, just as Mum would have wanted. She’d have had it no other way.
The process of healing grief is interrupted by many things, not least guilt and other blockers to forgiveness, in the journey of accepting what life has come to be.
All this simply leads us to a better focus, and that is to be thankful for what we had, and to live with a new purpose, knowing that our dear loved one is with us. I know that Mum is. Mum, who was a constant reassurance, and someone who could beautifully balance and inform a skewed perspective, still offers that wisdom, if only we remember what she would say. We can take that loving, kind and wise perspective with us beyond her death.
A few nights before Nathanael’s funeral I wrote, “Not long now, son, and we will mourn you, for your tent will be gone.” We had such little time with our stillborn son. Just four months to get to know him (after we learned his plight at the 20 week scan) and then say goodbye. We’ve had Mum all our lives to this point, and she was a woman who left such a profoundly kind and gracious legacy. THIS is the reason there’s a hole left inside of us that cannot be filled, and yet this hole is like classic Japanese kintsugi—the art form that takes broken pottery and lacquers the pieces together with a substance mixed with powdered gold. In our brokenness is our healing.
What is left to say? So many things, the limit of which is possibly infinite. I will save you, poor reader, that task.
For who you were and are to me and us,
for all you gave to me and us,
I will love you always, Mum.
See you when it’s my turn.
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