My husband read me a sad news headline this morning. (Aren’t most of them sad?!) It reported the death of a 44-year-old man weighing 980 pounds. He began over-eating at age 16 when he slipped into depression after the death of his mother. His health declined and he became bedridden due to his weight. I ached for him. I also lost my mother at age 16. But the two trajectories of our lives from that point were opposite.
I pondered why I was able to move forward with my life in spite of having an absent father, no siblings, losing my grandmother, and moving away from everything familiar to live with an elderly aunt and uncle. (They weren’t thrilled to have a teenager in their house.) I was able to finish high school, graduate from college, get married, have six children, and live overseas for ten years doing what I could for the betterment of a third world country. I’ve enjoyed fulfilling jobs like teaching high school, pre-school and home school, editing papers of English speakers and non-native speakers, owning an interior design business and a photography business. I’ve met so many interesting and gracious people, been married to a faithful man for 43 years, and I still delight in learning and growing.
Now, what do you think the point of my story is? Just suck it up and push through your sorrow? Keep your chin up? Time will heal? I’m strong and those who falter are wimps? Not at all.
Having been raised by two strong women, I felt unmoored when both of them died in the same year. Suddenly finding myself in a new household, new school, new church, new city, I definitely didn’t have it all together. I did find that being busy gave me less time to think about my losses. So the first Christmas season after my mother’s death, I got an after school job for the holidays in a department store downtown. I enjoyed helping the friendly shoppers pick out gifts. The leather glove counter I manned was just inside one of the entrances. When there were no customers at my counter, I enjoyed watching the shoppers hustle in from the cold their cheeks glowing and anticipation on their faces. I had glanced down from my people watching when I was overcome with the feeling that my mother should walk through that door. It was something she would have done. Always cheering me on, involved in my life as best she could in her after work hours. I had put her out of my mind the past few months. This certainly was not a convenient time to re-process my eight-month-old grief. I was at work surrounded by strangers. But there behind the glove counter by the door that Christmas, I faced the fact that she would never come. She was no longer a participant in my life. She had done her part to show me by example what kind of person I should be. Her job had been deemed done. She was allowed to go Home.
I now had to do what I had seen her do in her lonely years without a husband; what I had watched her do as she faced a fatal illness. She had trusted God. She had read her Bible. She had prayed. She had served others. She had made friends of good people. She had cared for her family. But why did I have the privilege of having a loving, godly mother to show me how to live and die? This I cannot answer… especially when so many hurting people never had such a treasure- not even for sixteen years. All I can figure out is that the good things we have are gifts. Gifts of grace. Undeserved mercy from a loving Father who so loved the world that he gave his only Son whose birthday we celebrate this month.
“Can I help you, sir? You’re looking for brown leather gloves for your wife. But you don’t know what size she wears. OK. Do you know her ring size? Often the ring size and glove size are the same. How about this wrist length buttery soft pair?”
