I’m sitting in my room in my house in Orlando with the door to my back porch open and a slight breeze blowing in on this 72º late spring morning. I know it won’t last, so I need to enjoy the cool while I can.
And while I can, in the stillness, I take a deep breath.
This year, while it started out on a sweet note with the birth of a new nephew, quickly went downhill when we lost my mother-in-law on March 4, and my sister-in-law on March 12. To say we were stunned would be a massive understatement. And as both sets of ashes sit on a shelf above my living room window, all I can do is shake my head in disbelief.
The reality of being the only one left of his family of origin hit my husband hard. As we age, we begin preparing ourselves for the death of a parent, but losing your only sibling, especially one just 2 years older than you, well, there’s no preparing yourself for that. No “they’re in a better place,” “they’re happier now,” or “you’ll see them again in glory” can fill the gaping hole.
I wrote both their obituaries for the funeral home. As I wrote my sister-in-law’s I had to stop, wipe away the tears and think, “I should not be writing her obituary. It’s wrong that I’m writing her obituary.”
And it’s true. Death isn’t just a part of the circle of life. It was never meant to be. Genesis 3 tells us of the fall of man and God’s judgment that “for dust you are and to dust you will return.”
Just a couple of weeks after the joint memorial service, we celebrated Easter. Resurrection. New life. Everlasting life. That’s what’s meant to be. Not pain. Not suffering. And certainly not death.
So I take a deep breath.
This is a momentary affliction for our family. It’s hard. It’s sad. It means we are the ones who need to be there for our nephews who lost their mom—even though they are adults and one has a family of his own.
And what does this have to do with Earth Day? It means there is still beauty. There is still life. There is still hope.
I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121:1-2, ESV)
Yesterday, August 2, was the 11th anniversary of my mom’s death.
going to happen quickly. My two sisters and my brother were all there, though.
for us. It was OK. She could go. We would be alright.
She would miss Morgan’s first day of kindergarten. Justin’s first job. Nathan starting college. Weddings, babies, graduations. Her great grandchildren, whom she would have adored.
And I’m trying to figure out how to find myself again.
And at unexpected times the grief of what is left behind might crawl out of the corner in which I’ve placed it. Some days I might let it come out and sit in my lap, and I will embrace it for awhile. Then I will point it back to the corner, hoping it will stay there longer than the time before.
Compelled 