Last week something important in this journey of grief took place. In an event that won’t be ignored, the monument company installed the headstone on Mom’s grave.
On Saturday morning, I left for the cemetery; I wanted to see the headstone and take flowers, and remember her. I spent the three hour drive up to the mountains praying, listening to Christian music, and generally trying to prepare myself for my first glimpse of the completed marker. I had chosen it, requested the short epitaph, made all the arrangements. But seeing it there was earth-shaking; there are no words to adequately describe the feelings that rushed over me upon seeing that stone.
I wasn’t prepared.
My mother’s name, carved into the cold granite, and the dirt now sunken, level with the ground around the grave, delivered a powerful blow to my soul. For just a moment, I was struck again by the disbelief. Then came the realization that, after three months, it is true and there’s no sense dwelling on the surreality of it. I was and am resigned.
For a while I busied myself with the silk flowers I’d brought for the granite vase. I dusted off the stone. I repositioned the silk flower my cousin had sent to the funeral. I took some pictures to share with my uncle, Mom’s little brother. Finally I sat down there, in the red North Carolina mountain dirt, on top of her grave, and I tried, with little success, to pray.
There is something about thinking of your mother there, UNDER THE GROUND, that breeds a sort of panic. I had a taste of it when I was leaving the cemetery after the burial, when I saw them begin to crank the coffin down into the vault. Now I knew she was there, in the cold ground, and I hurt beyond belief.
It wasn’t long before I remembered though, of course, she isn’t there. Her body is, but SHE isn't. Not who she was and is. Not the vibrant, big personality I have loved my entire life. Not the essence of the generous, talented and fun lady everyone knew. I thought of the words to one of the songs I’d heard on the way up there: You’re in a better place, I’ve heard a thousand times.[i] And I actually said aloud, “But knowing that doesn’t help, God.” Almost immediately, though, I blurted out, “That was stupid!” adding, “Yes, it does. It helps. It helps a lot. It just still hurts because she’s not here, and I miss her.”
This hurt won’t be put to bed by some sort of closure brought by a headstone or anything else. It just has to hurt. It won’t ever go away, but I suppose it will become less intense over time. In the same song, MercyMe sings, “In Christ, there are no goodbyes.” Unfortunately, the song is mistaken; there are most definitely goodbyes. However, thanks be to our sacrificial and merciful God, they aren’t permanent. Nevertheless, “I’ve never been more homesick than now.” [ii]
I'm blessed, Sunny, by the way that you continue to process all of this before the Lord. It's the lesson I have to keep reminding myself to learn, in joy and sorrow. How does Oswald say it? All these things are God's voice calling us to simply come. Oh for grace to follow His voice, and your example, and lay everything at His feet.
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