It was weird to come across some old writing of mine on Facebook recently because I didn’t have any memory of writing it. But as I read the piece, the words moved me, even fifteen years after they were written.
Coming across that post was especially timely because it talks about the death of a parent. Since we just passed Vernie’s 2-year anniversary in early April with my mom’s anniversary coming up in June, the passing of our parents is definitely on our minds.
It’s still hard to believe we lost both mothers within nine weeks of each other. And then just three months later, we retired and said goodbye to thirteen years at our church and forty years of full-time ministry. We packed up our house, moved to Charlotte from a small, close-knit town, and started a completely different season of life in a place where we were small strangers in a big city, our little house and street barely a dot on the map of a million people. A grief of a different sort.
We came to where Steve’s parents had lived except now they are gone and all we have left of them is their house and their dog and their memories.
Losing parents isn’t easy. Parents aren’t perfect. Mine sure weren’t. But losing them is a sober blow that causes those they leave behind to now and forever view the world through the lens of their loss. Nothing can fill the Grand Canyon of the space they left behind.
I’m thankful for the memories. I’m thankful, especially, that both Steve’s and my parents loved God and loved music. Here are my mom and dad singing at a rest home . . .
and Ken and Vernie singing in a church program.
Uncountable memories and incalculable loss. And so much love.
And so, having said all that, when I rediscovered this writing so near our mother’s anniversaries, I knew it was the perfect time to re-share it for those who have walked those same roads.
(Written in 2010, edited just a little.)
ALWAYS
Although my dad died in August 2009, I am still taking baby steps down the road of bereavement which I’m coming to find is a long, long road.
For example, my cell phone has always had one speed dial entry reserved for “Mom and Dad.” Always. And I always knew that at any time, day or night, I could push #8 and reach them both.
After Dad’s death, I left the cell phone entry the way it was. I just couldn’t muster the emotional strength it took to delete his name.
But this past Monday, just out of the blue, I realized the time had come. I took out my phone, pulled up the number, and slowly backspaced through “Dad.” It was a sobering thing to do but I didn’t feel all that teary about it. At least not right then.
However, that night, Sarah and I were lying on our big bed reading to each other, as we often do in the evening. When we had finished the chapter we were on, I shared with Sarah what I had done earlier in the day. And as I told her, the tears finally came. Sarah laid down the book and snuggled in tight beside me, patting my arm and saying sweet and comforting Sarah Words. (If anyone knows how to give comfort, a cancer child does.)
I think I was extra emotional due to my visits to the oncologist and surgeon earlier that day; the symbolism of erasing my dad’s name from my phone released so much pent-up grief on many different levels. It was lovely to have a fourteen-year-old daughter (who dearly loved the grandpa I had just erased) right there beside me to grieve with me and comfort me in my mourning.
For any of you who have ever lost someone dear to you, you know that grief involves a lot of small steps in saying goodbye. Steps as simple as making up new address labels for my mom with just her name. Steps as simple as finally finding the fortitude to erase a certain name from a speed dial list. No more them. Just her.
And that’s just what life is like, isn’t it?
It changes. People who have been there forever are gone. Thing shift. Doctor’s reports come in. Important phone calls are made. Anxiety weaves itself into the fabric of the day. Cell phone lists are re-configured. Addresses are erased and replaced. Uncertainty hovers. Relationships are altered. Laughter and grief take turns knitting moments together.
But life doesn’t stop. The sun still rises. Meals still need to be made, children raised, tasks finished, bills paid, and garbage emptied. I think that it’s in the doing of the basic stuff of life that healing comes. There’s something soothing about making a recipe you’ve made a dozen times before. There’s something therapeutic about scrubbing a sink, trimming a row of bushes, mowing a lawn, or finishing up a project at work.
Those kinds of normal things help to keep grief from taking over. Those kinds of normal things help to keep us grounded. They remind us that generations will come and they will go. People will be born, and live, and work, and die–and be remembered.
I know that someday down the road, Sarah will find herself picking up her phone and backspacing through my name. And she’ll cry. And her child will pat her arm and whisper sweet words of comfort.
And Steve and I, and our parents, and all the generations that came before us will always live on–in those words, in those tears, in those rememberings.
What about you?
There is a quote attributed to Ernest Hemingway that says, “Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name.”
Who have you lost that you love? Share their name(s) and a special memory or two.
We want to remember them with you.
Since you mentioned your old writing, Becky, I very recently shared with my sister a post you’d written in 2012 called “Cry Love.” My sister and I have grown kids, in their 20s and 30s, and I’ll just say the parenting stuff never ends. I’ve often thought of that post over the years (haha, decades, now).
It’s great that your old writing moves, and surprises even you! I remember those pictures of your parents, and Steve’s, as you’ve shared them over the years. They speak so much.
Oh my, the words and images we store away. I love that you write about imperfection, loss, and love. My mother became ill in 2009, at age 70, and died in 2015. The further away from her illness and death, my memories of the imperfections of our relationship fades, and love fills in the potholes that I allowed to exist for too long. I understand her life better as I move into the ages she once was. Luckily, we were always close, and I was there with her, like you were for your mom, along the way, and especially at the end.
Thank you so much for your writing, old and new. Your words and images from your photos are therapy, and I’m so grateful that you share.
Ann,
I’m so honored that you shared my post with your sister. I can’t believe it’s been twelve years since I wrote that; so happy that it still has life left in it to share.
I love your imagery that “love fills the potholes.” And it’s true what you said. The further away we get from a loved one’s passing, the more love blurs out the imperfections. It’s interesting you said you understand your mom better as you move into the ages she once was. That’s a good insight.
You definitely have a gift of encouragement using your words to encourage MY words. Thank you so much–I needed that today!
Wow, you should really have your own editorial column or something (if that is even still a thing). You have immortalized your parents so beautifully with your writing. I read this post at a sensitive time because my mother is having all kinds of health problems and can’t stay out of the hospital. It is such a helpless feeling, knowing that this huge part of your life is probably ending. However, not everyone has the same life experiences and the only person I will be left with is a sister with high-functioning special needs but anger/behavior issues who seems to hate me half the time.
Someone I have lost is my aunt Teresa, who was really more like a friend. We got to know each other when I was kind of bulldozed into letting her parole out to my apartment. We were complete opposites. She was always in some kind of trouble (getting beat up by ex-boyfriends and picked up for DWIs), while I have lived a quiet life, my social anxiety and various other issues engulfing me in a not-completely-self-imposed isolation. She got me to go out a couple of times, she sent me a poem that reminded her of me once, she pushed me to be more than I thought I could be. We didn’t have much time together, though, because she developed some illnesses that were likely brought on by decades of heavy drinking and smoking…Well, this post is becoming an entire therapy session. I do appreciate your heartfelt words.
Kristen,
Thank you for your kind words about my writing; I’m so glad they were meaningful to you during this season of life.
It’s difficult to see things start winding down with a parent and know that “a huge part of your life is probably ending.” I think there is a “pre-grief” we experience at times like that, a precursor to the grief to come. It must feel extra overwhelming that your only remaining family member is a person who you love but who presents many challenges. Grace to you during this time.
I loved reading about the relationship you built with your Aunt Teresa–after being bulldozed into letting her stay with you, getting a front row seat to the dysfunctions of her life, and being complete opposites, you still wound up as friends. And I love that she nudged you out of the confines of your own quiet life and broadened your horizons. It sounds like the two of you shared a special relationship; I’m sorry your time together was short. Hugs.
I lost my mom, Betty Wright, in 1996 when she was only 63. She loved all of the seasons and nature, birds and butterflies made her so happy to watch. The simple, beautiful things in life were such a thrill to her. I miss her so much.
Lee Anne,
It sounds like your mom and my mom would have been the best of friends in the things they loved. Seasons, nature, birds, butterflies, simple and beautiful things.
A wonderful tribute to your mom . . . I’m so sorry you lost her so early.
Beautiful post Becky, life is a lot. A lot. Of a lot. So much joy and sorrow blended together. I pray that at the end of the day, the joys will outnumber the sorrows. Speaking of blending, I wonder if, along with the joy of living in your house of abundant memories, could it also feel depressing, being constantly reminded of so much loss. Not that we don’t feel loss daily but I wonder how it is. Maybe all the architectural changes of the house helps with that. Just wondering out loud as I will never have the opportunity to move into a family home with so much history.
Both parents are gone, mom(Nancy) died 20 years ago and dad(Jim) was last summer. Mom was beautiful, very tall and always fashionable. She was kind, very social, had amazing insight and always felt she was never able to live up to her potential. She didnt like her personality and hoped that in her next life that it would be different. She loved babies. She often took our dogs our for ice cream. I miss her terribly, she died young of cancer.
Dad was a cardiothoracic surgeon. He was an intellectual, odd, quirky and emotionally distant until his 80s. He was self absorbed and also humble. He was so proud of his work. We were proud to be his children but we really didnt know him that well. His favorite breakfast was english muffins and peanutbutter, all covered in ketchup. He carried worcestershire sauce everywhere he went to put on whatever he ate.
I think of them as my children battle health challenges. One is looking at a possible bone marrow transplant because Covid recently destroyed his entire immune system. Another is so upset about the first’s diagnosis that it has triggered the manic side of his bipolar disease(inherited from my mom). He had been stable for 10 years so this is a shock and scary for him and all of us. And my Sarah is slowly heading to hospice but she is the one who grounds me with the same familiar schedule day after day, so there’s that.
What a life!
Lesley,
I was just thinking about you yesterday and getting ready to send you an email to see how things were going in your life. And then your comment popped up here; such good timing!
Good question about living in the house. For the first six months or so, I think it was very emotional and depressing for Steve, seeing so many reminders of his beloved parents everywhere and having just left his profession/ministry after 40 years on top of it. But as you said, the renovations and making it our own have gone a long way toward replacing the memories with good things to come.
I loved your descriptions of your parents–showing much love and respect but not glossing over their shortcomings. I’m not sure I can get on board with your dad’s idea of peanut butter and ketchup, though. 🙂
They sound like fascinating, flawed people and I bet conversing with either one of them would have been an incredibly scintillating experience. Thank you for sharing their memories here.
And now? What you’re facing now? Wow. I had no idea your oldest had been so adversely affected by Covid to the point it destroyed his immune system. And then to know that it so strongly affecting your other child makes it, as you said, “A lot of a lot.” It’s hard enough on us mamas when one child is suffering but when you have three children suffering–all in such diverse ways–that’s a lot for a heart to handle. I wish I had words to make it better, but no one does. Please keep me posted with how things go over the next few weeks/months. You have my email. Prayers for your family and much love, especially to you and sweet Sarah as you spend your days together.
I lost my Mom when I was 22, my Dad when I was 42, and this past November I lost my only sibling, I was 68. With each death there’s a sense of feeling like an orphan, but my brother’s death left me as the only one still standing out of our small family. It’s a strange feeling, often a very hard feeling. Christmas and birthday phone calls ceased. The ones you call at your worst and best, no more. I don’t know how people do it without Jesus. It’s not a cake walk with Him!
Guerrina,
I can’t imagine the loneliness of being the “only one still standing” out of a small family. But the key word is “standing.” Amid all that loss through the decades of your life, you are still standing strong as an example to your son and to your friends who love you.
But still, that doesn’t negate the feelings of loss and loneliness on those holidays and the silent phone when there used to be beloved voices on the other end. Hugs, my friend.
Both of my parents died in 2011 – dad, a week before his 96th birthday in Feb. and mom two weeks before her birthday on the 29th of November. Mom had Alzheimer’s and when I would call her the caretaker would tell me she’s smiling. She didn’t talk any more, just smiled. One day I called and I told her I prayed that God would bless her socks off – she laughed out loud. Another time I called and sang to her, “I just called to say, I love you . . . and the caretaker said she smiled. Dad did not have a phone in his room so it was only when we came to see them that I would talk to him but he didn’t speak either. He had always said “I want to see Jesus.” He was a pastor for about 30 years. Some days I miss them more than others.
Sharyn,
How fun that you made your mom laugh out loud with the socks comment; that must have made both of your days.
Losing both parents within a year is such a difficult thing. The heritage they left behind lives on so beautifully in you and your sweet spirit. And bless your dad for pastoring thirty years; that is not an easy calling, nor is it always easy to be a pastor’s kid. Bless YOU, too!
I lost both of my parents in nine months. I lost my dad in December of 2018 and my mom is September of 2019. We lost my husband’s mom in August of 2020. It was a harrowing 20 months. I was barely catching my breath from one and another was upon us. But God…He is faithful to carry us through tough times while giving us the promise of seeing them again. Each of our parents was struggling with health challenges that made it hard.
What we found in those months was a network of friends and family who helped us find our way and loved us through so much. I am constantly reminded that with God nothing is wasted, no matter how bad it may seem, He can use everything for His good if we let Him.
Lisa,
That’s a good description in saying you were “barely catching your breath.” That’s how it feels sometimes, doesn’t it? Losing two moms and a dad in less than two years is a whole lot of grief.
So thankful you were surrounded by your friends and family and that it was a comfort to be reminded that nothing is wasted with God. I think it was Rick Warren who said, “God never wastes a hurt.” So true for you all; so true for all of us.
What a beautiful piece you shared. I lost my mother January 30, 1971 when I was only 9 and she only 31. One of my favorite memories is her encouraging my love of reading. The year before she died, she gifted me a Trixie Belden book. I had read Nancy Drew and enjoyed them, but had a little trouble “getting into” Trixie, so she read the first few chapter aloud to me, and I was hooked. My dad died in October 2007 and the memory that stands out the most is linked to my mama. When I was about 18 months old he was in an accident at work (he fell 30 feet from a crane to the steel deck of a ship) and was in the hospital for 6 months, 3 of them in a coma. I’ve always been told one of his nurses told him he lived for a reason. I’ve always thought that reason was to keep me from becoming an orphan at age 9. We lost my father-in-love this past August at age 90 so we are still going through all the “firsts”. Thank you for sharing this beautiful, thouht provoking piece.
Sue Ellen,
I love that your mom encouraged your love of reading; it’s a gift she is still giving you, all these years later.
So thankful that your dad survived such a horrific accident. What a miracle that was and how grateful I am that you had one parent remaining when you turned nine.
I’m glad this piece was meaningful to you. Thank you for sharing your story.
I lost my dad when he was 74 and I was 27. I feel I lost out on so much and my children really lost out not knowing their grandpa who was a wonderful. loving, caring man and dad. My mom passed on almost 16 years ago when I was 49. Her phone number is STILL in my contacts. I just can’t delete it yet. Grief is different for everyone and there is not a day that I don’t think about mom or dad. Wendy
Wendy,
Twenty-seven is just a year younger than Sarah is now; I can’t imagine her losing Steve right now! As you said, it was not just your own loss but for your children as well, not being able to get to know better the man you called dad.
I love that you can still look through your phone and see your mom’s name come up; a wonderful reminder of the love you shared with her. Sounds like you were truly blessed with some wonderful parents.
I lost my wonderful husband, David Lothrop Tousley, at only 68 years old, last July 22nd. It was a complete shock to all of us. Yesterday would have been our 40th wedding anniversary as well as my mom, Doris Goodman’s, 91st birthday. We lost my Mom in March of 2009. It was a tough day. We still talk about both of them every single day and always will, yesterday I received e-mails and phone calls from family and friends, remembering Dave and remembering our beautiful wedding and remembering my Mom. We established a scholarship in his name at Rutgers University where he went to college and I have made arrangements for my kids to carry it on.
Dale,
May I wish you a belated 40th wedding anniversary, celebrated in the hearts of everyone who knew you and David. Almost four decades is a long time to spend with the same person; I know you had something very special and I’m glad so many people reached out to you on your special day.
I love the idea of establishing a scholarship; one of the best ways to keep a loved one’s name alive, knowing that that gift will help many young adults down the road. Many hugs to you and your family.
I can remember being unsettled when my father passed away. I went to see my new boss and left the office. I was fortunate to have lots of leave available as well as Christmas and New Year’s holidays. I jumped in my car and left for my parents home. I was somewhat disappointed that father’s body had been removed before I arrived. My mother, brother and myself got in his car and drove around aimlessly. We finally stopped for burgers and headed back to Moms house. Grief is unpredictable and timeless. It was good to grieve together.
Cindy,
What you said about grieving together is so true. I love that you drove around in your dad’s car and no someone else’s. That means every corner of that car carried memories of him.
I love what you said about grief being unpredictable and timeless. And no two people ever grieve the same.
Reading your reply made me remember my Bill. Hard to believe he has been gone so long. I still miss him, but have learned to be happy. Living in new surroundings helped a lot.
Cindy,
I know Bill was a special part of your life. Remembering him with you!
Beautifully written truths.
My father left us way too soon, when he was 63. At the time he seemed old, and since I’ve realized how young he was. I waved goodbye to that age five years ago. Again, I want to share my gratitude that he was a loving father who taught us about God and lived an example of loving God and others. His name? Robert Mayfield. So, dear Ernest H, dad still lives on. Not only in our memory, but in the presence of Jesus. Thanks Becky, for your memory that triggered mine.
Cheryl,
Robert Mayfield. Glad to remember his name with you today and also thankful that he and your mom gave the world Cheryl Denton! I know that your life is a reflection of so many good things about him.
You’re so right. Sixty-three doesn’t seem so old these days, does it? But for someone to pass at the age seems way, way too soon. Glad the post triggered a good memory for you this week. Enjoy having Buddy home!