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Hard Boiled Eggs

April 27, 2010 in Reflections on Grief

I like hard boiled eggs. Actually, I like eggs in general, and hard boiled is just one great form in which to eat them. So, since I had a carton of eggs sitting in my fridge, I thought I’d hard boil a few to enjoy for breakfast this week. But there was one slight problem. I have not hard boiled eggs before. I’ve always been the benefactor of someone else’s hard labor.

This would be the point at which last year, I would have pulled my cell phone out, called my mother, and found the answer to life’s questions. Or at least how to hard boil an egg. But see, I can’t do that anymore. And it throws me off. I can’t tell you how many times as I was reading up on the art of egg boiling, boiling my eggs, and then discovering my egg boiling failure, that I wished I could have called my mother. Somehow a living, breathing human can just give you better directions than a cookbook. A mother is even better.

This isn’t really about the eggs, though. I’ll crack the challenge sooner or later myself. What it is about is what I miss. I miss my mother. There are hundreds of things I have thought of in the past few months that I have started to pull my phone out to call and tell her, only to realize it’ll be a one-sided conversation. Losing someone that has been a part of your life for twenty years is staggering. Even more staggering when you realize what a friend you lost. I’ll miss having a mother, to be sure. But I can solve egg-cooking mysteries on my own. What I really miss is the specific, loving care of one person, Elizabeth Cooke. There were things I could talk with her about, that she would understand, that no one else can do. The hole she leaves is huge. She wasn’t just my mother, she was my friend. A powerful combination. When I had questions on what to do with my life, she had insight that no one else could have. When I had questions on girls, she had insight that no one else could have. When I had questions on some decision I had to make, she had insight that no one else could have. And she had been hard boiling eggs a lot longer than I have.

This week marks the week in the semester’s rhythm which my mom died last semester. It was the last week of classes, just before finals. Today would be the day she fell and broke her hip. Tomorrow marks the last day I ever talked with her. Thursday, her death. I can’t really believe that much time has already passed. Sometimes as I drift to sleep, I remember her last words to me–I stare at the same ceiling falling asleep that I did when she said those words–and I can hear them like they were yesterday. “I’m not doing so well, James…we’ve had lots of good conversations…I love you lots and lot…” I still can’t think about those words without crying. The pain from that loss is with me every single day. I wake up with it and I go to bed with it. Sometimes I physically hurt. Ache. Sometimes, I feel sick. Sometimes, I’m just lost in another world entirely, wishing I could ask her for advice on hard boiled eggs.

Five years from now, the grief won’t be as present a reality as it is today. Life moves on–just the way my mother would want it to–and new normals are discovered. But that loss will always be there. Five years from now, I’ll still have things I’ll want to call her up and tell her. I will still miss her. As I perfect my egg-cooking ability, her memory will be with me. Hard boiled eggs may be a tasty treat, but they will always remind me of my mother and the ways I miss my mother. And that’s a memory I’ll cherish more than an egg.

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2009

January 1, 2010 in My Life, Reflections on Grief

I have tried to repress my inner desire to write about the past year, or to talk about the coming one. However, I just can’t avoid it. Something about the mile marker of not only a new year, but a new decade as well seems to me to need some kind of written recognition. So with that, I throw in my thoughts to the heap of opinions on the year 2009.

I must say that I am none too sorry to see 2009 depart. My year was rocked with the intrusion of cancer into my mother’s life, and ultimately, her death. Yes, it was a hard year.

Seeing someone you love under the curse of a disease like cancer is incredibly hard and challenging. I don’t know how many times I went to bed last semester crying out to God for some kind of normalcy in my life. People would talk of plans for the break, how normal it would be, and I was faced with a return to a very abnormal situation. People would talk about plans for the summer, and I would wonder if I could even grant myself the idea of planning on one more break with my mother, much less any sort of summer plans. I watched from a distance as my mother continued to battle the disease, wondering just how much information I was getting over the phone. I didn’t really know how to talk about it with people, and people didn’t really ask me about it very often. There were times everything seemed as though it could be normal, but a call home would often remind me that it wasn’t.

How does one of the most influential people in your life simply cease to exist, in one year?

I’m perhaps still very much in shock when I think about one year ago. We went on a hike recently that intersected a similar hike my family took last year at this time. It was almost surreal to me to think that just a few short months ago, life was normal. I’m coming to terms with the absence, but not with just how quickly it really happened. Wow, if I had only known where I’d be now…

I think at the start of a new year, people often wonder what the future holds. I certainly do. But in this past year, I’ve realized just how glad I am that I don’t know the future. If I had been told a year ago, as my mom and I lived out a normal, happy mother-son relationship, that she would be gone a year later, I’m not sure how I would have handled it. Had I been told at Spring Break last year that it would be my last glimpse at the normal routine life of my mother, would I have welcomed those words? Doubtfully. And even after learning of her cancer, and it’s severity, had I been told that she would be dead before the close of the year, I don’t know that I would have been ready for it.

After all, when are you ready to learn that someone you love is about to die?

I think it is the mercy of God that we don’t know the future. My people told me after my mom’s death that they didn’t think they could have handled a similar situation the same way. That is certainly a testament to the grace God showed me and my family, and still continues to do so. But it also is a reflection of the result of walking the path before you. A year ago, I wasn’t ready for this; six months ago, I wasn’t ready. Now, I’d hesitate to say I’m ready, but I am at peace. I wouldn’t have been a year ago.

That isn’t to say there weren’t good moments of 2009. I particularly loved my study trip to Ireland. I’ve longed to travel overseas for years, and the opportunity to study for six weeks in another country was the best possible answer to that longing. Of course, it also further gave me the travel bug too. But I enjoyed my brief moment in Ireland. It was the best possible contrast to the news of my mother’s cancer.

Another highlight was the spring break trip I took with my friends, to my own backyard, quite literally. I was fortunate to bring a large group of college friends to my house, and do some camping nearby. I love where I have grown up, and it is a joy to share that with others. Of course, it too was a tainted trip, for it would be the last time I saw my mother well.

There were trips to Chicago, Nebraska, and Cafe on Broadway. Laughter, shared memories, and times with people. I was surrounded throughout the year by good people. My friendships grew, and I met new people. And in the middle of the most difficult news of my life, I was surrounded by more genuine friends than I think most people have. The only times I spent alone were the ones I chose to spend alone; that speaks very highly of more than a few people’s character in the circle of relationships I am blessed with.

My relationship with God grew in many ways, for nothing turns you to God more than a crisis at home. Quiet times that seem optional when all is well suddenly become the only way to keep going from day to day. Too bad it sometimes has to be that way, but at least it produces a good result.

And I enjoyed my family. Before the onsought of cancer, when everything was normal, I enjoyed sharing my college experience with my dad, mother and brother. I loved hearing about the changes at home, the books my mother was reading, the jobs my dad had, and the new drivers permit my brother held. I enjoyed the breaks I was home, getting to spend time with them. Then cancer came. But though cancer intends to destroy, it did not destroy my family. My close family became even closer, as we stood by my mother’s side, starting each day by praying with and for her, pausing in the midst of the day to pray again for her, and concluding the day by praying again. My mother didn’t want me to stay at home, even though she was ill. I think that would have been hard for her to have seen: the future of her child altered by her cancer. Of course it still altered my life, but not before it gave me a new appreciation of my mom, and the rest of my family. Nothing makes you hug someone tighter, than the realization of just how frail this short life really is.

So 2009 is over. I’m glad it is, but it would be incorrect to call it a horrible year. For with God, even what should have been the darkest year of my life, is only a dip in the stream. Had my mother not become ill, it would have been probably a fantastic year. But then again, some of the best lessons were from the reality of her condition. Both at home, at school, and among friends, life had a different perspective. I think I was more intentional with my life as a result of my mom’s cancer. It made 2009 just a little bit better at times. I hope the coming year brings more joys than 2009 did, but I also know that 2009 laid the foundation for what lies ahead. For it is just a step in the path. A cracked, uneven step from my perspective, but nonetheless important on the way. A year from now, come what may, the events of 2009 will affect the events of 2010. That should be interesting to see.

Welcome twenty-ten, it’s good to see you.

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One Year

December 24, 2009 in My Life, Reflections on Grief

It’s amazing what changes in one year.

If you had told me a year ago this Christmas that a year later—now—my mom would have passed away, I doubt if I’d have believed you. It is the mercy of God that we don’t know the future, I suppose, because I know I would not have been ready for that news.

I spent some time lately looking back through my photos the past several years. Everything looks so normal; we were a happy, smiling family. Things were normal. Family vacations are filled with happy memories, and photos around the home are a reminder of how good everything was. I thought it would go on like that forever.

If there is one thing I wish I could impress on people that I’ve learned, it’s how quickly things can change.

One year.

One year, and my life has changed in more ways than I even can begin to imagine.

One year, and I now refer to my mother in the past tense.

One year, and one of my closest friends is no longer walking this earth.

One year, and my picture of normal has been shattered into a million pieces.

One year.

Really, it was even shorter than that. March, 2009, everything was normal. Spring break—a trip home—just another trip home. Normal. May, 2009 and my picture of normal began falling apart.

I was home on Spring Break, and everything seemed normal. It was normal. I enjoyed being home, and having the company of my JBU friends with me.

Just a few short weeks later, returning in May after the semester, and my mother could barely get off the couch to greet me. The fast on-sought of cancer and brain tumors dashed my picture of a normal family.

By my departure for Ireland, two weeks later, she couldn’t even stand to hug me goodbye.

Things got a little better when I returned, but of course the serious news had been told, and things were no longer normal. Now, December 2009, and I am at home, with a family that looks a little different.

She’ll always be my mother, but she won’t be in family photos anymore. She won’t be talking to me on the phone. She won’t be mothering me, and worrying about me as only mothers do.

One year.

Time flies past us whether we like it or not. The moments we have with friends and family now will never be replaced. I’m grateful that, though it feels like my years with my mom were cut short, I can live remembering countless good memories.

I am thankful that looking back today, I made the most of the time I had with her. Sure there are regrets that I didn’t ask as many questions of her, or that I was too focused on something that now seems so trivial. But on the whole, I enjoyed the time I had with her. That is a great gift.

Even with that being said, I still took her for granted. I thought she’d be around for ages. I thought she’d be around to see me graduate from college, go on to graduate school, get married, have children. I thought she’d see me live.

One year ago, I thought she would be a tangible part of my life indefinitely.

If I could impart one lesson in all of this, it would be to never take your family, or your friends, for granted. God has placed people in our lives that may be more important to us than we even realize. Don’t take them for granted.

I hope one year from now does not bring the same changes to you that it did to me. But should your picture of normal come shattering down, I pray that you will have taken the time to enjoy the picture while it was still in front of you.

Don’t live each moment as though the next may be horrible, dark and depressing. But do live knowing that what seems certain, isn’t really. And what seems like normal may change more than you like it to in very short order. Don’t live dreading what could happen in a year, but do enjoy each moment. Though you will probably never walk the road I have, you will still be glad you did.

One year, one year.

My family

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Looking at Loss

December 21, 2009 in Reflections on Grief

Tell someone you just lost your mother, and immediately you’ll have more notes, hugs, and sympathy than you know what to do with. It is good and it is needed. I find it interesting that, though people may not have experienced the same thing, universally people understand how hard it is to lose someone you love.

I think some people assume I must be having an incredibly difficult time in the wake of my mother’s death. Certainly, it is hard, but I think I’ve laughed more than I have cried in the days since her parting. The day I found out, several people told me that they thought they were more emotional about it than I was. How can someone learn of the lose of their mother, a very close friend, and that same day turn around and genuinely laugh and smile?

The shortest and most simple answer is the peace of God. Without God, I know my perspective on everything would be incredibly different. God promises peace, and he gives it generously to those who ask for it. It probably sounds cliché to the reader, but in a way I can’t even begin to describe it; in the most difficult time of my life, God has been there.

Christians know of God’s promise to never leave or forsake us, but I think at times it is easy to feel left and forsaken. In an hour where it would be very easy to feel that God has forsaken me, I have found instead that God is closer than ever. In Him I have joy, and that joy isn’t dependent on circumstances. I’ve always hoped and believed that it would be there through the darkest storms, and now I know it can be. I may have lost my mother, but my joy did not depart with her.

But perhaps another part of my grief, is understanding that there are two ways of looking at it.

On the one hand, it would be very easy to look at the death of my mother and feel cheated and robbed. No twenty year old should lose there mother; I think most people believe that intuitively. It can be very easy to start remembering my mom, and then start looking at all the lost opportunities. My future, my career, marriage—should I be so blessed, children, the lessons I learn, the people I know; there is so much that she’ll never get to see or talk about. Yes, it is very hard to think about those things, and it can create a feeling of being robbed.

On the other hand, and the view I choose to ascribe to as best I can, I can remember my mom’s life and all of the good memories with her. As I have remembered, talked about her, looked at family photos, and the home she created, I know so well how blessed I was to call her ‘mom’.

I suppose I’m biased, but she was an incredible woman. It was the love of a gracious God that allowed my life to not only intersect with hers, but to be shaped by it in the way only the role of ‘mother’ can shape a child. There are reminders of her motherly love everywhere I turn, and rather than be frustrated by the loss, I rejoice in the great gift I was given in a mother. In some ways, I can’t even feel sorrow knowing how much I really had.

Certainly, it is easy to say I lost so much; and I did. But by that very same token, I had so much. For whatever reason, God chose to make that relationship end earlier than most mother-son relationships do. But I am intensely grateful that even as brief as that time was, it was good time.

Some people don’t even get to know their parents, some people live in broken homes, and some have parents who don’t love their children as they should. To me that seems the greater loss. I may not have had a long relationship with my mother, but the years I did have were good years. I’m thankful for that, and that every time I remember her, it will be with a smile and a laugh, because that was who she was. I won’t have the pain of a lifelong relational wound whenever I think of her.

Ultimately I don’t really like using the word ‘loss’ or ‘death’ since because of the sacrifice of Christ, my mother’s death was really only a temporary separation. It is a loss only in that I must live these few short years on earth without the present-ness of my mother’s relationship. And to that, I can only say, I truly had so much. I have not lost, but gained; for now I can say that even though she is no longer here, my relationship with her is better than before. It may sound strange, but I appreciate her now even more than I did a year ago. I’ve always know I was blessed to call her mother, but I see that now more than ever in her absence. That too is a gift, for since I will see her again, I can give her an even bigger hug, and say “I’m so glad to see you mother.”

I’ll shed my tears, and I’ll have my sorrows, but it is only a reminder of what a gift I had. To my God, I am thankful for the beautiful years with my mother. To my mother, I am thankful for the love and care she showed. And to my friends and family, I’m thankful for the incredible support you have shown me. Yes, I have not lost, but gained. I truly have so much, and for that, my tears are tears of gratitude and joy.

What do you have?

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The Hope of Christ

July 26, 2009 in Cancer, My Life

One of the most difficult trials of my life began on my return from JBU after last semester. My beautiful, healthy mother had been experiencing dizziness, thought to be caused by an inner ear infection. With the passing of time, it continued to get worse, not better. The prescriptions she had been given were not changing anything. She started getting tests done. Then an inner ear infection turned into a parasite on the back of her brain, and she was airvaced to a Neurological hospital.

More testing.

During this time, I was starting my journey to Ireland. As I was spending the night near the airport, to catch my 6 am flight, she was in an unplanned, expensive helicopter ride. The next day, as I had my us-only cell phone on for the last time in New York, I learned that further testing at the hospital revealed a brain tumor. Two actually. Surgery was expected, but no dates had been set. I went to Ireland.

My cell phone didn’t work in Ireland, nor did I have much time to read email. My first day in Ireland was filled with excitement, yet in the back of my mind, the question of “What is happening to my mother?”

The surgery came and went fine. Full recovery was expected. Weight off my shoulders!

Then, several weeks later, the most life-changing news from home: Mom had cancer, and it had spread to her bones. No treatment could remove it; it could only give her more years. Without treatment, 6 months. I must have seemed a little unusually quiet that weekend on the trip. How do you tell people about something like that? I hate having people feel sorry for me; yet there is no way to avoid that when the word “cancer” comes out. I’m still very grateful for a very supportive group, and the prayer and comfort they gave me. I didn’t even have to tell anyone; a good friend of mine found out within a day, and told my group leader. In truth, I don’t know that I could have found out that news in a better place, even though it was thousands of miles from home.

But Ireland came and went, the cancer didn’t.

Radiation treatment had been scheduled to deal with the remaining fragments of the second brain tumor. Only 3 weeks, doesn’t seem to bad, does it? Well, treatments have been over for over three weeks now, and my mom is still recovering. Radiation affects taste, apparently—one of many side effects she has dealt with. Most food is unappealing to her, and she has little appetite.

Where does that leave me?

In the best place in the world: the arms of my dear Savior. I have often said that I really don’t know how I could walk through life without Christ, but recently that statement has taken on a whole new meaning for me. The promise of a “peace that passes all understanding” has been daily with me. I have spent hours in His Word, and it brings tremendous comfort. The companionship of powerful worship songs, especially “You Never Let Go,” have also helped me a lot.

Sometimes when people ask me how I am doing, I really don’t know how to respond. How do you explain that, while it is difficult, you really are ok? That you have no fear of it? In truth, I have to remind myself she has cancer. Not because I don’t see how little she can do every day, or because I don’t notice her lack of energy, but because I honestly am not afraid of the future.

My mother has two magnificent options before her: either she will be passing from this life to the next very soon—something that should bring joy to every Christian’s heart in any situation, or God will heal her. She can’t stay like this. It won’t happen. Either option is comforting, truly. Of course, I would love to have many more years with my mother. Losing her will be hard, no matter when it comes. But when it does, I don’t think I can help but feel joy for her at the same time. When she does pass away, she has won. Cancer, and all affliction are no more.

Healing. Must take a side journey here. Do you believe God heals people today? There are, of course, many schools of thought on the answer to that question. I’ve always believed God still could heal people, and have seen healing myself and prayed for it. But I have always wrestled with the people that don’t seem to be healed. The people that ultimately walk through life with horrible disease. So I think I’ve always been in the “God can heal if He wants to” camp but not the “God always wants to heal” camp. Having a family member face serious illness, however, forces one to confront one’s theology of healing. Does God or doesn’t God? Should I pray for healing, or am I wasting my time?

I don’t want to get off on a tangent about the theology of healing. There are many books, and other writings on that. I’m still working on mine anyway. I do know, however, that as I have read scriptures on healing, I move more and more to the place of believing God does want to heal. Not only can he, but he wants to. Why don’t we see more healings today then? I wish I knew. But I think the church has moved a long way from praying for the sick, and expecting healing. The idea that God may not always heal would certainly cause one to be cautious in expecting for healing. Yet, to quote just one of many scriptures, James 5:14,15 says “Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up…” Note the use of the word ‘will’ not ‘maybe’. Perhaps we need to seriously reevaluate our beliefs on healing.

I can’t say all that without again emphasizing that I don’t just say that to try and cling to some hope that perhaps my mother might live. My faith will not die with my mother, even if that is tomorrow. I hope for many more years with her, but when God calls her home, I am truly at peace about it. But I do dare to ask God for a healing. My family is blessed to be surrounded by a community of believers that also dares to petition God for an intervention. His Word says he is a healing God, and I am asking him for that. The book of James also says that “You do not have, because you do not ask God.” (4:2). Wouldn’t it be tragic to learn that if only we had asked, cancer could have been healed?

One final thing I must say, because I find it quite encouraging. Many people are praying for my mother. One of the most powerful stories I’ve heard though, is a lady in Mexico that my family doesn’t even know. A close family friend is from Mexico, and her mother still lives there. Her mother found out about my mother, and asked her friends—again who don’t know my mother at all—to be praying. Turns out one of these women had a vision prior to that of an angel telling her to pray for a “very sick woman.” She found out later about my mother, and knew that was the woman the angel spoke to her about. That woman is fasting and praying for my mother, and she doesn’t even know her.

I could say so much more about this time of my life, and in time I will. It has taught me so many lessons. I have had great insight into the love of God, the importance of Godly people in your life, and I think I have a thing or two to say about cancer as well. Hope fully I haven’t sounded too strange here. Some of these things aren’t exactly common American church talk. My personal challenge has been to work through that. Though the idea of healing, and visions seems so strange to most people these days, the more I read the Bible, I can’t help but wonder “Did God change, or did we?”

Throughout my life I have found much comfort in music. Different songs speak to me at different points in my life. In Ireland, and since, one of several songs I listen to almost daily is “Our Great God.” I hope the words will touch you as they have touched me. If you can, listen to David Hunt’s rendition of this great song.

Eternal God, unchanging
Mysterious and unknown
Your boundless love unfailing
In grace and mercy shown
Bright seraphim in ceaseless flight
Around your glorious throne
Their voices raised both day and night
In praise to you alone

Hallelujah!
Glory be to our great God
Hallelujah!
Glory be to our great God!

Lord, we are weak and frail,
Helpless in the storm
Surround us with your angels
Hold us in your arms
Our cold and ruthless enemy
His pleasure is our harm
Rise up, oh Lord, and he will flee
Before our Sovereign God

Hallelujah!
Glory be to our great God!
Hallelujah!
Glory be to our great God!

Let every creature in the sea
And every flying bird
Let all the mountains, all the fields
And valleys of the earth
Let all the moons and all the stars
Throughout the universe
Sing praises to the Living God
Who rules them by His word

Hallelujah!
Glory be to our great God
Hallelujah!
Glory be to our great God!

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