A day without Mom is too long. But five years? My breath forms a tight fist in my gut. Five years. Mom has been gone five years.

At this point, my grief is a kindergartener. It no longer needs carried around every moment like an infant, though it can’t be ignored. I may not bleed every time I bump up against it, but I still bruise. The dull ache is ever there, somewhere, maybe silent. 

In her mid-fifties, Mom was diagnosed with an aggressive neurodegenerative disease. Within a year, my fit and vivacious mother could no longer walk unassisted. And in a blur of time, Mom was taxed to do simple functions like eating or breathing. Mom was confined to lying in a recliner, completely lucid, during her final years before the Lord called her home late one June evening.  

The anniversary of the years without Mom is, of course, complicated. Even if we agree that God will set all of this right someday, perhaps we silently wonder if this temporary sorrow is pointless until that sweet day. 

Rest assured; it hasn’t been pointless for me.  

1. God cares for my dear ones more than I do. 

As Mom declined, losing the ability to care for her children and grandchildren was one of her deepest griefs. Thinking of Mom’s compassion for me brings me to tears. That is something I miss, especially in measureless moments of mothering. I want somebody to notice the nuances of my chaotic days in the way only a mother who knows her daughter well enough can. I want my mom—the woman who, with a mere glance, could acknowledge the exact word bouncing in my brain—to help me brainstorm solutions to my self-imposed problems. I want that woman’s wisdom because it always seemed to reshape my questions into opportunities. I want that woman back.   

As her time grew short, Mom wasn’t wrestling death; she was equipping us. In the weeks before Mom died, she thoughtfully set us free from the prison of grief in a series of last conversations. As she lay in her recliner struggling to breathe, she harnessed every bit of air to coach us on living well without her. 

I wish I could tell her I remember her advice. Mom, this stubborn daughter listened: I’ve kept chipping away at a book manuscript during early mornings and naptimes. And Mom, I’m keeping a list of completed reading material. It puts my brain back together after it melts all day with the kids. Mom, God has cared for me in your absence just like He cared for you in your death. Mom, we’re doing okay. Mom, we will never move on, but we keep going on because of Hope.

And as I was recently weeping over this hole in my heart, the Lord reminded me He is the most compassionate. It was God’s compassion that flowed through Mom to me and yet, Mom’s love was still only a sliver of God’s care toward me. 

Nobody loves me like God loves me. Not even my mom. Nobody can help me like God can help me. Only He knows me better than I know myself. Only He is with me always. Nobody can rescue me like God has rescued me. The answers I want aren’t worth comparing to the salvation Christ has won. Every bit of love I experienced from Mom is engulfed in the greater love I find in God. It’s always been You, Lord.  

2. Grieving with Hope is an action.

A few weeks ago, I was sorting a hodgepodge of papers and endless kid crafts, and I came across an old journal entry from our middle son: “Nana I love you so much I wood do iny thang for you happy.”  

And there it is stinging me again: My kids miss Nan. This year, our oldest son will have lived as much life without my mom as he has lived with her. How can this be? 

I grit my teeth. But Peace comes. Mom is happy. Mom is not missing out. Mom is not grieving all the milestones here that she isn’t witnessing. Mom is absent from the body, so Mom is present with our Lord. (See 2 Cor. 5:8.) And when her soul was shepherded into heaven by Jesus, the promised satisfaction and completeness of King Jesus plus nothing more was and is all consuming. 

Son, you “wood” need to do no “thang” for Nana to be happy. In fact, you could do no thang. She is the happiest and contented she has ever been because of fellowship with Jesus—period. 

Happiness came over me just thinking about this. Happiness that I can’t keep to myself. Happiness that comes with great responsibility. I want this for others. 

What does this mean? Grieving with Hope can never be stagnant or private. Grieving with Hope is an ongoing, engaged, social process. If we treasure the gift of God saving our loved ones, it translates into a remarkable push to share this gift. Go tell others.

If I love you, my neighbor, then I owe it to you to share the most pivotal decision you will make on this earth. What do you make of the sinless Son of God’s death and resurrection? Do we turn from ourselves, trusting King Jesus alone is enough to save us from our sins? Or do we put our trust elsewhere? Our comfortable life? Our noble undertakings? Our ideas of morality? Our perfect little family? Our stellar work product? Our intelligence?  Our financial wisdom? Our attempts at justice? 

As the calendar turned to June, sharp memories walked me back into the room with Mom as she died. This is the direction every one of us is headed. What one thing dulls this inevitable blade of death? The Peace of Christ that had, before pain, felt theoretical. Christ was with us in the moments leading up to Mom’s death, in the moments during, and in the moments after. This same Peace of Christ compels me as I tap on my keyboard right now: that you and I would know the greatest Love and that all our losses would lead us to drink more deeply from it.

If the wages of sin is death, Mom’s death could have been dramatically more heartbreaking than it felt. But since the gift of God is eternal life, we trust our sorrow is short-lived. 

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Lord, whether we know our own pain or the pain of another—use it to draw us near to You, to know Your goodness, Your nearness, Your ultimate conquering of our pain on the cross. Lord, renew our eyesight daily to treasure Christ, to believe You alone are enough, and to make the most of every opportunity to share of all You’ve done. We need help. We need courage. We need tenderness and boldness. In Christ’s Name. Amen.

Did this post stir your affections for Christ? I pray so. If this resonated with you, consider commenting below or receiving future posts by entering your email at the bottom of this page. And! If you know somebody this article might encourage, would you send it their way? Thank you! 

Paige