Last spring I lost the use of my right hand and shoulder.  I broke two fingers and dang near broke my shoulder.  By God’s grace those injuries have healed and except for a nice little crook in my pinky I’m good as new.

This spring I lost my mom.

It feels like a part of me has been taken away.  Not ripped off or severed.  Just gone.  And I want it back.

A Rodeo Queen and barrel racer in her heyday (with ribbons and spurs to back it up), writer, editor and friend to many, to her family she was the much loved Mom and Grandma.  We miss her.  Our family gatherings won’t be the same without her.

I can no longer call her to chat about health, family, politics, her latest read.  No more visits to sit in her room enjoying sunshine streaming in and her beloved birds at the feeders.  I will miss her smile, her quick wit that usually got the best of mental confusion, her love of treasures that moved from home to apartment to hospice room – spoon collection, family quilts, gifts, pictures of family (SO many pictures!) I will miss her saying, “Make a 100!” or “Love you big like Texas!”

Of course I won’t miss the worry – about her falling, her struggle to breathe, her pain, or her confusion that made life difficult for all of us.  But grief has a way of sliding those things to the rear and letting the good stuff up front.

And there was good stuff right up to the end.

It’s not that way for everyone.  For some, loss is wrapped in tragedy, shock, years cut short, relationships left in disrepair.  The depth of that kind of grief requires an extra measure of Holy Spirit power and professional support.  That kind of grief I cannot speak to here.

My grief is not of that kind.  Mom was 88, had COPD and post-stroke issues, and we knew we wouldn’t have her around much longer.  But we didn’t know if that meant days, months or years.  And the not knowing is its own brand of stress.  The constant, drawn-out, relentless pressure of meeting her daily needs, trying to keep her safe when her mind told her she could do things that her body could not, the physical limitations that kept her in wheelchair or bed.  All the logistics that come with needing assistance at home, then an assisted living apartment, then the need for a smaller room and greater level of care.  The worry that funds will give out before the physical body does.  Not knowing each day whether you should prepare for the long haul or for The Call.

There was joy too.  Visits.  Hearing her describe a Top Ten day where she’d been able to sit outside and enjoy it.  Seeing her hold court in the dining hall where she reported for duty to her friends at mealtime.  Remembering  trips, girls’ retreats, funny family stories.  Counting our blessings together, so many blessings.

The day before she died we were all with her, one by speaker phone.  A typical get-together. There was love and laughter and fussing at mom for trying to get out of bed without help.  We were concerned for her and she for us.  But her spirit was strong.  She was with us mentally but ready to get out of that used up body and get on with eternal life.

That’s how it is for Jesus people.  We know to Whom we belong, we know He’s prepared a place for us in heaven, and if we live long enough we get to the point we are ready to go there.  Mom made it clear that she had fallen in love with Jesus and said He was saving her a front row seat because she was so short.  What a gift to her family.

Grief is holy ground, a tender private place, not easily shared except with the closest dear ones.

And so we grieve, but not as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13).  We let the tears come when they will, knowing that some sorrow is too deep for weeping.  We remember what a great mom she was, all the things she accomplished and all the lives she touched.  And on those Top Ten days we think of her and take comfort in knowing that all her days now are Top Ten.