One Loss Too Many | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: One Loss Too Many | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
08/05/24
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I’m amazed at what we look to for significance during hard moments. A Jewish proverb states that God unleashes his special favor if he takes you home on your birthday. I was holding my mother’s hand on her 91st birthday when she breathed her last. When her chest stilled for the final time, I almost forgot to breathe. I was an orphan.

Yes, I functioned. I hugged the nurse who confirmed things as she prepared the body. I made the phone calls and concluded details with the funeral home, with family members, and with the pastor. I did everything I had to do but there was an emptiness I’d never had before. Walking through dark valleys of shadow took on a new reality.

Faith groped for hope. Numbness wrapped me in a suffocating shroud.
Tears evaporated before they reached the surface. Tiredness sapped me of energy to do more than the minimal. Sleep escaped into a myriad of memories, questions and regrets. Meal times came and went. Something was wrong and I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

Blessed are those who mourn.

My head knew the truth. Mom had sacrificed herself for her faith. She’d gone to replace martyred missionaries in Ecuador, stayed faithful in her marriage for over 60 years, and raised a family of five who followed the Lord after she had spent years interceding on her knees for the wayward. She was a pillar in her church and a light in her community. And yet, the end of her story had arrived.

Pictures and stories brought back smiles but the chair at our celebrations was still empty. The phone stayed silent. The space for visiting was gone. The trinkets and vases on her shelves and window sills now sat dusty on mine.

If only I’d known her time was up, I could have visited more. Perhaps one more doctor’s visit would have provided the key warning to extend her days. There wasn’t any time at the end. Things happened so quickly. The professionals hunkered down in that special room to convey the message. Her wishes for a DNR had come to pass.

Blessed are those who mourn.

The ambulance passed me as I sat at the stop sign. Helplessness belted me in place. That wasn’t just another emergency passing. That was my mother. And there was nothing left to do. Someone had waited too long. I, who in life share words aplenty, am speechless. The power of my language is gone. My tongue is silent. My pen is dry. The greeting cards are meaningless.

Anger hides away in the dark caverns of emptiness. It chains down all other emotions with it. Rationalization attempts to take over. At least there was no more suffering, no more pain, no more limitations. At least she was with dad again… and with Jesus. Why did my head pound when I had lived my whole life for this moment of faith?

I walked into her senior’s home to pick up her mail and there she was. I stepped forward with my arms open. It wasn’t her. I thought I saw her disappearing into a store at the mall and then had to lecture myself that she wasn’t here anymore. How long did I keep her pictures up? How often did I visit the headstone that burned the date into my heart? How often did I look toward the space she sat in every week at church?

Of course, there are the nights. Those endless hours of thinking back over a lifetime of disappearing moments. How do I hold what is gone? How do I create what has vanished? Why do I wake up every morning feeling the ache surging through my neck, back, and shoulders?

Blessed are those who mourn.

I’d moved and lost my church, my position, my community, my friends. I’d lost family members and now I’d lost mom. It felt like one loss too many.

We’re told not to let our hearts be troubled. To believe that we’re not forgotten, abandoned, or left alone. We have one who understands the deepest shades of dark valleys and he walks them with us. We have one who understands. At the grave of Lazarus, he unleashes the emotions I can’t find. In the garden, he unleashes the tearing of a heart that rages at death. At the right hand of the Father, he stands with open arms for Stephen.

For now, he sits with me.

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