Grieving

By Lynn Ludwick

After Dad died, my mother, a quintessential list maker, wrote down the steps of grieving, intending to cross off each one as she accomplished it. She soon discovered one cannot put grieving ducks in a row and that each person’s grief experience is unique.

Now that Mom is gone, my sister, brother and I are experiencing our own disorganized emotions. We’ve progressed and lost ground. We cried and laughed. And Charlotte and I have sighed. A lot.

One weekend we took a timeout from breaking up Mom’s home—a family hike was in order. Hazel (5) said, “When I’m an adult, I’m going to get a job and buy Tutu’s house [Mom’s grandmother name] and you can live with me, Banana [my grandmother name].” Soon she and Alex (3-1/2) were arguing over who would buy the house, so I suggested one buy the upstairs, one the downstairs, and I’d move back and forth. Renee (3) asked if I was going to Heaven. “Yes,” I said. She then asked, “Are your legs going to Heaven?” Go figure out that one! The kids were grieving in their own way.

Observing our eclectic group that day, I relished my family. Our politics and worldviews range all over the map, but our love remains central, our mutual support stands strong. Hazel wore Mary Jane shoes, jeans, a hoodie, and her great grandmother’s pearls. My daughter-in-law, who rides a motorcycle, walked the trail with an umbrella. My well-equipped brother and sister-in-law doled out jackets and gloves.

My siblings and I grieved, and healed, through two-weekend estate/garage sales. We chose that approach rather than hiring professionals and enduring invasive strangers pawing through our mother’s cupboards. Women shared their stories, and neighbors dropped by and expressed condolences.

Mom was a gatherer of the Depression era, thus a lot of stuff. We discovered treasures that helped us understand our parents better, thus understanding ourselves better. I toted home many goodies, some to accomplish my out-with-the-old-and-in-with-the-new agenda; others just need to be kept in the family.

I wouldn’t trade our process for anything, though I’m beyond tired and still living a surreal existence. But as one friend remarked, “You made it through and you’re still upright.” In the days ahead I’ll cry less, yet grief will blindside me—a photograph, an elderly woman with a cane, something I’ve placed in my home.

Another friend said the loss of our mothers leaves holes in our hearts. So true. But I know God will help in the healing process, (“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18), so I’ll trust my grief to Him.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die…a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,” Ecclesiastes 3:1-2,4

Lynn Ludwick writes from Eagle Point, Oregon. lynniegirl45@hotmail.com