It hits when I least expect it.
Grief.
If I anticipate the possibility, I’m usually ok. But if I don’t think about it, if I don’t prepare myself ahead of time…that’s when it leaps out at me and clonks me over the head.
And so, last Sunday morning, there I was in church. I got through almost the whole service and then we stood to sing one final song.
O Come, All Ye Faithful. One of my very favorite Christmas carols.
I sang the first few words just fine: O Come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant…
and then it struck.
O come ye, O come ye, to Bethlehem.
Memories of Mom flooded my mind. Images of her in choir. Images of her in her favorite chair. Images of her baking Christmas cookies, wrapping gifts, decorating the tree. Memories of her, down on hands and knees, playing with my dollhouse.
Within me, roiling emotions. Around me, the beloved tune.
Come and behold him, born the King of angels; O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord.
For a moment I wondered: can I hold it in?
No, I could not.
Tears began and they began hard.
I had another wonder:
Should I walk out? Or would that cause more distraction?
I chose to sit. I bowed my head. Made myself as small as possible. And I sobbed.
Shoulders shaking. Mouth open. Silent. Heart all out there:
Mom is gone. I’ll never talk to her again. I’ll never hear her voice again. I’ll never sit beside her in church, hear her singing this or any other hymn. I’ll never hug her or be hugged in return. I’ll never see her little grin when something tickled her fancy and she couldn’t help but laugh.
I’ll never touch her hand.
I’ll never wrap another gift for her, smiling at the knowledge that she’ll be delighted with the present.
But then, in the midst of it all, an awareness.
Mom is with Jesus. Maybe right now she’s talking with him. Laughing with him. Asking theological questions of the author of Theology.
The song continued in the air around me:
Sing, choirs of angels…
Mom’s singing with those angels. Her sweet, soprano voice, once again soaring. As it hasn’t in more than a decade, ever since her stroke.
Sing in exultation.
I was alone in the pew. My husband was up front on guitar; daughter nearby at the mic. Singing. In exultation.
Sing all ye citizens of heaven above.
The song continued and so did I, tears like a river down my cheeks. I never knew so many tears could live within my head.
Afterwards, my husband’s strong arms.
My friends.
They came. The faithful. The compassionate. The criers and the dry-eyed.
O come, all ye faithful. Come comfort the brokenhearted. Come weep together. Come sit in silence while your loved one mourns.
O come.
Come and behold the knowledge that the lover of our souls calls his people home.
Called my mother home.
O come, Kathy. It’s time. You have been faithful, good servant.Come sing with the choirs of angels. Come sing, ye citizen of Heaven above! Come sit with the Word of the Father, who appeared in the flesh. Tiny, vulnerable, yet Lord of Lords; Son of the Father; begotten, not created.
Come and adore him.
Yes, there will be moments of unendurable grief. But it is grief for me. For the emptiness of the world without my mother.
It is not grief for her, joyful and triumphant citizen of heaven! Exalting with the angels up there, no cane, no breathing difficulties, no nebulizer treatments, no food forgotten in the oven: just adoring the true God of true God.
Glory to God, all glory in the highest.
All glory in my grieving, wayward heart.
The Disheveled Theologian 