From Mourning to Light
From Mourning to Light: Finding Peace After Loss Losing a loved one is a journey through the deepest valleys of grief. In this heartfelt reflection, we explore the heavy path of saying goodbye to a mother, navigating the anger and isolation of sorrow, and ultimately discovering grace, healing, and light on the other side.
GRIEF
Nearly a decade ago, I lost the brightest light of my life—I lost my mom.
It started as a casual, unassuming workday. There was nothing especially alarming on the calendar, save for one heavy detail: my mom was being moved into hospice care that very morning. She had been ill for quite some time, cycling in and out of hospitals and long-term care treatment centers. My mother was a tough soldier, a woman of deep resilience, yet the years of medical battles had left her visibly battle-worn. Living in Texas while she was on the East Coast, my immediate objective was to wrap up a few urgent matters and fly out the following week to be by her side—to "count her fingers and toes," as she always playfully said whenever she got to see her children in person. Deep down, knowing my mom and how fiercely she had rejected the very idea of hospice care, I suspected she wouldn’t make it through that first week. I was racing against time to get to her. On the morning of March 17, 2017, I received the call that shattered my world: I was too late.
From the time of her admittance—and for years prior—she and I spoke every single day. Across the miles separating Texas from the East Coast, those daily phone calls were our sacred tradition, the thread that kept us tethered to one another. Recently, however, those calls had shifted from everyday updates to conversations from her hospital room. Our talks would vacillate between quiet acceptance and fierce denial of the inevitable. Every single conversation stripped away my adult armor and awakened the raw, helpless emotions of a toddler, a pre-teen state of mind. All I knew was that I was losing the person my wounded heart suddenly needed to call "Mommy." Throughout my life, I had always called her Mother, Mom, or Mama—never Mommy. That word only surfaced in those final days when I desperately needed her to live, even as the painful reality set in that I had to let her go. She was dying.
For the first few years following her passing in 2017, the arrival of March pulled me into a dark, angry, and deeply isolated place. Grief made me bitter. I simply wanted my mom back here with me. I was overwhelmed by the void she left behind: Without her, who would advise me on the major crossroads in my life? Who would give me that unmistakable mom "glare" when she silently disagreed with my thoughts or plans? Who would be my fiercest champion?
It took years, months, and countless days of heavy contemplation—and resenting the arrival of Spring—before a profound shift occurred. I realized that my grief, as real as it was, had become rooted in my own desires. It hadn’t truly occurred to me that she was tired of being unwell, exhausted from carrying the daily weight of physical pain. Maybe she wasn't taken from me; maybe she was simply ready to "go home." That revelation hit me like a ton of bricks. I asked myself how I would feel enduring pain, agony, and despair over my failing health day after day. I knew I couldn't bear it, and in that moment, my anger dissolved into profound admiration and respect for a woman who had held on for us as long as she did.
Once I made that connection in my mind, the darkness began to lift. For the first time in years, I found myself smiling as I imagined her walking and talking with Christ in complete, restored, and perfect health. I pictured the look of pure awe on her face as she walked through heaven, smiling from ear to ear as she reunited with friends and family who had gone on long before her. She is so happy now. In my mind's eye, I saw her dancing and singing praises in a heavenly choir, peacefully pruning her garden, and reading the Word without weariness. She was finally doing everything she loved to do, free from the physical limitations that held her back in this life. Sitting with that vision, I laughed and cried for the both of us. Bit by bit, grace by grace, I slowly moved from mourning to light.
Today, I want to encourage anyone who is finding it nearly impossible to "press on" after losing someone so dear, whether it is a cherished friend or a beloved family member. Grief has no strict timeline, and the weight of absence can feel suffocating. Yet regardless of your circumstances, I want you to know that God can reveal the beauty and peace that our earthly eyes cannot yet see. He offers a perfect peace and a quiet understanding, even in those seasons when there seems to be no logical reason for our loss and no immediate relief from the distress that follows. He can—and will—walk you through the valley if you let Him.
I love you, Mommy. Rest in perfect peace. We will praise and fellowship together again one day. Amen.
S.K. Caraway, Director
Dedicated to: The Rev. Lola B. Howard (July 5, 1942 – March 17, 2017)
Ecclesiastes 3:4
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
2 Corinthians 1:3-5
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ, we share abundantly in comfort too.