About Mom.

I don’t care how old you get, there will always be a time when you just want your mother. I’ve heard my aunty say it, and I’ve heard my own mother say it. They are both now over 50 years old, and I’m convinced they’d repeat those words again and again.

They lost my grandmother when she passed away of breast cancer one Easter morning. I can only imagine. My mother is alive, and I have faith that she will be for at least a few more decades. But I understand, to some extent, how heart-wrenching this loss is and how desperate and alone you can feel at times.

My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer in January of 2019. It was caught early, and after months of chemotherapy, she was determined cancer-free and advised to get a double mastectomy to combat the 90% odds of the cancer returning. That was her plan from the beginning, but her diabetic condition has pushed the surgery further and further back. Recently, it’s come to doctors’ attention that the cancer may have resurfaced elsewhere, and while I believe results will either show this to be untrue or God will heal her yet again, I am pained, desperate, and alone.

No one knows the cause of cancer, but it is widely understood that stress can trigger it. I along with my siblings have been undergoing much stress lately–burdens that we’ve split to place partially on the back of my seemingly ever-strong mother. She’s the strongest person I know, the most faith-filled and faithful, consistent person I know. The most caring who’s always loved beyond measure despite what anyone’s done to her. She is as wise as a serpent and as innocent as a dove–with unfathomable wisdom and a relentless prayer-life. But she’s expressed how much stress has been added to her plate as she cries out to God in an anguish that doesn’t even belong to her–pleading as my brother lived in his car, as my sister chose to give her life to an abusive person who cannot fathom love, and as I have lost everything I’ve ever worked for and have been continually on the brink of homelessness.

Right now, my world is no longer collapsing; it has fully collapsed. And while my faith in God remains intact, I just want my mom. I want the woman who taught me about faith. I want the woman who taught me how to be a giver and expect nothing in return. I want the woman who showed me how to serve my God’s church. The woman who taught me how to forgive my father–a man who’s broken the spirit of every person who’s ever been close to him. The woman who would make me feel like I knew my grandmother whom I’ve never met as she mimicked her, played her songs on the piano, and sang just like her. The woman who taught me that loving people means you put yourself at a loss for the benefit of others, and showed me that it is possible. The woman who prayed God wouldn’t send a husband her way for the safety of her children until we were all grown. The woman who cried with me on the phone for hours after yet another girl broke my heart and everyone both in and out of the church turned their backs to me. The woman who taught me to know God and hear him for myself because her faith does not belong to me, and it cannot save me. The woman who put her foot down, told me to have consistent work-ethic, and demanded that I become a man–a task everyone says is impossible.

Well, my mother has always managed to do the impossible. And I want that woman; however, although she is alive and generally well, I feel like I’ve lost a part of her. Because I cannot inflict another wound on such a beautiful and harmless woman. And as I think about all the people who I am convinced are fond of me–people who say they love me–I’m broken because I cannot think of one who’s cared enough to take the time to learn how. And I just miss my dear and beloved mother.