Forgetting

I feel like I’m forgetting things. Forgetting little memories, little moments, little snippets of my mom. It’s been six years since she died, so it makes sense. What did she get me for that birthday? What we do for that holiday? I have clear snapshots of particular moments, once I love and ones I hate, ones that I doubt will ever leave my brain. But the small moments, I’m losing them. It feels wrong.

We’ve all moved away from my hometown, so her graveside feels deserted. I visit her about once a year, and even though I know she’s not actually there I wonder if she feels lonely, if I should visit her more, if I’m letting her down by not being there. In my head I know she would think that’s ridiculous - I think about her often, and she would say that that’s enough. But her graveside is still without flowers for most of the year.

We talk about her less, too. Fewer remembrances with family and friends. She’s not the first thing people ask me about anymore, not the main topic of my conversations. So much has happened, so much has changed in the past six years. Life has kept moving, for my dad, my sister, for me. Are the stories of her, the memories, still there, but unspoken? Or are we all starting to forget?

Her sister died when my mom was in her early 30’s, and I wonder if she went through this too. The forgetting the small moments, the stories of her best friend spoken less frequently. I can’t imagine what that felt like at 40, at 50, when so many who knew her sister had moved on, had led separate lives. Was there grief for her too, in the continued loss?

I don’t want to keep forgetting. I want to remember, all of it. And since I know that’s not possible, I want to remember as much as I can. If you’re still reading this, almost eight years after I first started this blog, and you have a story about my mom, will you share it with me? I miss her, and I don’t want to forget.

Everything repeats

Burial

Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?

It seems like every year during Holy Week I feel a stronger tie to my mom. This year the day of her death falls the day after we remember that Christ is risen, he is risen indeed. (I can't decide if it's a good reminder, or a cruel joke. It may change minute to minute.)

There's also something about being with someone as they near death that makes the story of Jesus' death so much more real. Placing flowers at the foot of the cross during the Good Friday service feels too much like putting flowers on my mother's grave. The pain and anguish Jesus felt as he died his violent death reminds me too much of the pain my mother felt as she waited for hers.

This year, as we read the story of the burial of Jesus, I could feel Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus wrapping Jesus cold, lifeless body in burial spices and strips of linen. The body of Jesus must have felt like my mother's - the skin losing heat as time passed, becoming more rigid. They lovingly, carefully, enrobed Jesus corpse with the linen strips. I was thankful the men from the funeral home had covered her body (likely her body in a bodybag) with a thick velvet blanket. And then, it was finished - Jesus' body was sealed in the tomb, and my mother was cremated, buried weeks later. A part of me wishes I could have done what Joseph and Nicodemus did - care for the body of their loved one after death, as they did in life. But I don't know if I would ever be able to get rid of the feeling of her cold, cold skin if I had.

It's more real when you've been there - been present at that moment of death. The story of Jesus isn't just an abstract - it becomes yours. My friend who lost her daughter felt the same. Experiencing death, in person, in your family - it changes the story of Holy Week.

I had to leave the Good Friday service quickly. All the lights went out, and every time I closed my eyes I saw her, dead, in lying in bed. Mary, his disciples, Mary Magdelene - they must have felt the same. They must have remembered his lifeless body for days, or longer.

Because it's been four years, but the image is still as fresh as if it was yesterday.

Remembering

Sometimes living in a tight-knit community like mine is hard. We hurt each other, have conflict, and we have to do the messy work of trying to make it right. With differences in race, gender, upbringing, faith traditions, and on and on and on, it takes a commitment and grace to love each other through the muck.

The beautiful thing, the thing that keeps me coming back to this complicated family of mine, is that when things are hard, when there is grief and loss, I am never alone.

So to my grace-filled friends, who sent me the beautiful flowers today: thank you, dear ones, for the gift. Thank you for sitting with me in my grief, even four years out. Thank for you for understanding, and not minimizing my pain. Thank you for helping me to remember my mom. I'm so glad you are will me.

Blessing

Every Maundy Thursday I sit vigil with my mom, as we sit vigil with Jesus. We sit, we remain, we watch, we pray as Jesus prepares himself for death. I do the same, did the same, as my mom's body shut down and we watched for the end.

Every year my church remembers Jesus' last supper and his preparation for death by reading the story from John 13 - the story of Jesus sharing a last meal with his disciples, of Jesus washing his followers feet, of Jesus preparing them and calling them to love one another as he has loved them.

Jesus' choice to wash his followers feet was a blessing. It was preparation, doing for them what he wanted them to do for others. He told them, "this is how you do it. This is how you love - you do what I have done." And he sealed that call with the water and the oil, and the tenderness of his hands as he dried their feet on his towel.

I didn't get a verbal blessing from my mom before she died. There were no words of, "this is how you live life, as my daughter." She didn't have the mental capacity after her stroke to put thoughts like that together, and she didn't have the physical ability to say it near the end.

But tonight I received that blessing, that blessing of a mother. I received that blessing as a mother and her daughter washed my hands, dried them with a towel, and prayed, "love others as Jesus loved us."

I received that mother's blessing tonight - from a mother who is not mine, four years after her death. I know it was a gift from my mom, a gift from Jesus, a gift I really needed this week.

Love others as Jesus first loved us. I'm going to try, Mom. I'm going to try.

Every year (month. week. day.)

I feel anxious. I know because I feel this pressure in my chest, like I'm having trouble breathing. This tightness that no amount of deep breaths or stretches can take away.

I go through my list of things that I could be anxious about. Going into the hospital tomorrow for my clinical rotation? Kinda. This or that thing that I may have forgotten? Maybe. I do a few things to feel more prepared for the next day, and I wait, hoping the tightness will leave.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't. And when it doesn't, I know - I miss my mom.

Every time. Every time I feel anxious, feel the tightness, and I can't find the reason, somewhere deep underneath it's because I miss my mom. And even though I know this, even though I'm used to this, I never jump there first. I always have to work through the list, the this and that that could be causing my anxiety.

Mostly it comes out of nowhere - slowly building until I can't ignore it anymore. The chest tightness, the jaw clenching. The ways my body responds to a subconscious grief I don't even recognize.

Today it's because it's Palm Sunday, and she was born on Palm Sunday, 62 years ago. She came as the King came in, declaring his power and glory forever and ever.

But really, if I'm being honest, it's not because of Palm Sunday. It's because it's the Masters.

Every year I watch the Masters. My dad watched golf, so I watch golf. I really enjoy it, at least occasionally. The Masters are a must.

And every year it hurts.

Because four years ago when I watched the Masters she was dying. Really dying. Heart rate increasing, fast, shallow breaths, low blood oxygenation dying. Eyes closed, can't move, can't speak, asleep all day dying. I remember sitting in her bedroom with my dad, with her, watching golf. I can still picture it, clearly, like I just looked at a photograph.

It's been four years, but when I read my posts from those last two weeks of her life I can feel it happening, all over again. I can remember her whisper, remember her weakness, remember the loose grip of her fingers.

Every year I watch the Masters, and I remember that time with her. That end-of-life, body-shutting-down time. That sacred time.

And every year I feel that inexplicable tightness in my chest. Or every month. Every week. Every day.

All I have to do is wait, and it eventually comes down to the obvious: I miss my mom.

Celebrating

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you so much. 

The gauntlet

My friends have this time of year where almost all of the anniversaries and family birthdays fall. They call this time of year "the gauntlet."

April is my gauntlet. That time of year where I have to grit my teeth, give myself more grace, and plan my crying time. That time of year where I stop making plans and just let the days happen. I keep hoping it will get easier. I feel guilty when it does. Even knowing that it's coming is taking its toll.

A week from today my mom would have been 62. She was born on April 3rd, on Palm Sunday. Add 58 years to that, and she was two weeks away from dying. April holds both her birthday and her death day. It sucks.

My life is so different now, four years later. I'm on my way to being a nurse, and embroiled in the tests and papers and clinical days that entails. I'm glad to be surrounded by classmates who make it their job to be caring - it makes it easier to fall apart, and easier to ask for help.

I'm married now, and my husband is wonderful. Even when I burst into tears for no obvious reason he's quick to hold me and comfort me. We've figured out how to care for one another well, even when things are heavy.

My dad has remarried - a lovely, loving woman. But she's not my mom, so it's just weird. Reminiscing over old photos of my parents together has a different tenor to it. I'm glad for him, and I really love his wife, but its hard.

And I just feel like she's missing. She's missing - as in she's missing out on all these beautiful things in my life that I wish I could share with her. She's missing - as in I think she's missing me, or at least I hope she is. She's missing - as in she's not here, and I feel like she should be. She's missing, and I can't find her, and I won't ever be able to. She just... missing.

Deep breaths, Katye. Deep breaths. The gauntlet has begun.

Gleason

Football. ALS. A video diary to a son. Life, death, faith, fear, anger, sadness, distance, humor.

I was not expecting all that when I went to see Gleason. 

It's raw. Maybe the most raw film I've seen. The most real, true, heartwrenching documentation of a family going through hell and loving each other. The best example of the pain and love that goes into being a caretaker. 

It's not really about football. And it's not really about ALS. It's about a couple, and their son, and their family and friends, living life and looking to the future in the midst of a terminal illness. Its honesty is breathtaking. Its reality is painful. It all sounds so cliche in words, but it's just the opposite. It's the most vulnerable thing I've ever watched, and maybe the most beautiful.

Watch it. Bring tissues. Enter in to the intimate moments. Be a part of this unfinished story. 

Does it ever?

Does it ever get easier?

Too many nights this month I've been up late crying, bawling, yelling in a whisper. Too many nights I've ached with missing you, knowing that you're still not here, and you're not coming back, and I don't have my mommy.

I thought, this far out, it would be easier. And it probably is - the daytime at least. But nights, when I slow down, when everything else stops there's still this ache.

I want it to stop, because it hurts so much. Monthly 17ths, and year anniversaries. Anticipatory grief of coming milestones. Memories of our last family vacation before everything changed. But I don't want it to stop, because I don't ever want to forget. I don't ever want to stop missing you.

I'm lucky, I think - you led me to a profession filled with people who care, and people who have been touched by grief. In my classes I'm not alone - so many of classmates know grief, and were led to nursing by their grief. I can share my story, and it's understood. I can cry and 34 caring people will be at my side in an instant.

I'm lucky, too, because I know that sometimes nursing isn't saving a life - sometimes nursing is about a good death. Living and dying with dignity and grace - that's what I want my work to be about.

But it's still hard. It still hurts like hell. It's still brings back painful memories to learn about brain cancer, feeding tubes, the physiological signs of death. How can I be hurting so much while caring for others in pain?

I don't know how to do this.

I miss you so much.

Does it ever get easier?

Pain of new life

Mom, I have my orientation for nursing school tomorrow morning. The first real day of this new career, and you're not here. 

It's all because of you, you know. Your time in the hospital, in rehab, in the ER, in hospice. All those nurses who cared for you. Seeing them, seeing you - that's why I'm doing this. That's what led me here. 

I wouldn't be here without you, without your illness, without your stroke. But now you're not here to see it. That seems cruel. You are such a part of me, such a part of this. It hurts to carry that, to see this new hope and new life for myself out of all of my pain, my grief, my loss. 

But that's how it's supposed to be, I guess. The light in the darkness, the life out of death. The resurrection made real, made tangible. Somehow the scripture never captured the pain of it all, even in the glow of new life. 

I miss you, Mom. I've missed you more these past few months than I remembered I could. So many good things, so many new starts. Why can't you be here, with me in them? Why do you have to be so far away?

Gecko

Mom, I saw a gecko today.

My husband and I are on our honeymoon in Kauai, and today we saw a gecko, just hanging out by a trash can. It was bright green, and almost too colorful to be real.

I have this distinct memory of my mom, after she came back from a trip to Hawaii to visit her best friend who lived there, when I was about 11 or so. She told me that she saw so many geckos, all over the place. 

Mom, Vinod watched Bunheads with me today, and he really liked it! Especially the dance we watched, in episode 2 - the one to honor Hubbell, set to "Picture in a Frame" by Tom Waits. 

When Vinod and I were first talking about Bunheads he asked me how many times I had watched it through. I didn't remember until later that when this show was first out I watched each episode once myself, and then watched it again with my mom, streaming episode after episode from ABC Family's website using this ridiculously long HDMI cable attached to my dad's TV. 

I loved watching Bunheads with you, Mom. How did I forget about that when I was telling Vinod about it? It was beautiful to share this show about amazing women, filled with beautiful dancing like you liked. 

I miss you, Mom. Even here in paradise, even here on my honeymoon. Things still remind me of you, and missing you still keeps me up at night sometimes. I think I'm glad that the memories still come, but they come so unexpectedly now that I don't always know what to do with them. 

It's beautiful here, Mom. I think you would really like it. I wish I could bring back pictures and macadamia nuts for you. You'd even like the roosters that roam around the island. 

I love you. I miss you. I wish we could share this with you. 

Four years & Stephen Colbert

I've liked Stephen Colbert for a long time. Ask my dad - the number of times I asked to watch the Colbert Report instead of reruns of The Daily Show is too high to count (sorry, Jon Stewart, and sorry, Dad). Colbert has always made me giggle, and smile, and laugh/snort/chortle. And when he started saying things like this on the air I knew he was the comedian for me:

Funny, loves Jesus, and has a wicked eyebrow raise. What more can you ask for?

I'm eagerly anticipating the start of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert in September, and today I read the cover story about him in GQ. And more than laughs it was filled with heartfelt reflections on grief, and suffering, and joy. 

When Colbert was 10 his dad and two of his brothers were killed in a plane crash. He's the youngest of 11 kids, and everyone else was out of the house, so it was just him and his mom after the crash. (His mom sounds seriously amazing. And if you want to see one of the most beautiful moments of television, watch this tribute to her when she passed away in 2013.)

In the story, he says:

“It was a very healthy reciprocal acceptance of suffering,” he said. “Which does not mean being defeated by suffering. Acceptance is not defeat. Acceptance is just awareness.” He smiled in anticipation of the callback: “ ‘You gotta learn to love the bomb,’ ” he said. “Boy, did I have a bomb when I was 10. That was quite an explosion. And I learned to love it. So that's why. Maybe, I don't know. That might be why you don't see me as someone angry and working out my demons onstage. It's that I love the thing that I most wish had not happened.”

I love the thing that I most wish had not happened. 

Today marks four years from my Mom's stroke. I've been weepy and teetering on the edge of the waves of grief for the last week - somehow my body and my subconscious recognizes the date before my mind catches up. I keep thinking to myself, like I'm still three, "I want my mommy."

Reading this, today, was a grace. I'm not there yet - I don't love it, yet. (But it took Colbert 25 years, so I have some time.) But even though I want my mommy more than anything right now I also wouldn't change it for the world. My mom's stroke and cancer and death have made me who I am, have led to my vocation, have brought me to my soon-to-be husband. I wish with all my heart that it had not happened, but at the same time I'm so grateful that it did.

Mom, I miss you, and I love you, and I wish you were still here, but I wouldn't change the time we had together, or the life you led me into.

Happy

I am unbelievably happy.

Seriously. It's almost hard to believe. Especially when I look back on the last four years. Am I the same me who took care of her dying mother, who screamed and cursed at God and the universe, who lived in fear and pain and made a habit of grieving?

Sometimes, nowadays, it's hard to remember that life. That life before things started to get better. That life before the good things outweighed the bad. My life before my then boyfriend, now fiancé.

Because it's so different now. The good far, far outweighs the bad, things are falling into place, good things are happening, and I have so many things to look forward to.

I do know I am the same me. And I know this not just because I can re-read what happened in this blog. I know it because on days like today it completely surprises me that I'm happy.

Let me give you an example: two weekends ago I was in Portland visiting a friend, and I found a wedding dress. I found it at a bridal thrift store called Adorned in Grace, whose mission is to support victims of sex trafficking. It was the first dress I tried on, in the first store I went into. It was perfect.

I had to fly the dress home with me to Oakland, but the plane didn't have any places I could hang it, so I had to stuff it on top of other bags in one of the overhead compartments. I ended up sitting at the complete opposite end of the plane from my dress.

Now, instead of assuming that everything was going to be okay, and trusting the other passengers to be kind to it, and trusting that good things were happening, and were still going to happen, I did the opposite. I sat in my seat and freaked out, afraid that the dress was going to be ruined, and that the passengers were going to stomp all over it, or that it would get stolen off the plane, and I'd have to find another dress, and everything would fall apart. In short, I expected bad things to happen.

I do that a lot - expect bad things to happen. I learned it when my mom was sick, and maybe before. I learned to expect the bad things because maybe then they'd be a little less painful. I learned to expect the bad things because that was all that kept happening, for so long.

Slowly, slowly, and with a lot of help from my fiancé and from God, I'm learning to expect good things instead of bad. I tell myself, over and over again: "expect good things."

That's why, when I realize I'm happy, when I see how things are working out for good, when I feel things falling into place without being tugged or shoved there by me, I'm overwhelmed. I cry tears of joy and of awe and of surprise, and I thank the Lord that good things are happening.

It's still weird. It's just weird to be happy! I still don't know exactly what to do with it, and it still feels a little unreal. But the long and the short of it is that I am happy - really, truly, deeply happy. And I know that makes my mom happy too.

Mom? Guess what?

"I'm engaged!"

This is the conversation I wish I could have with you. I call you to tell you the good news, and before I even say it you can read the news from my tone. We laugh, and cry (because of course we would cry), and we get really ridiculously excited. You tell me how much you like him, and how happy you are for me, and we plan for you to come out to Oakland soon so we can scheme together, go wedding dress shopping, talk about other girly things.

I did get engaged*, and I'm really, really happy. But in the happiness there's this sliver of sadness that seems to balloon when I least expect it. This realization that I can't have this conversation with you, I didn't have this conversation with you, I can never have this conversation with you. You won't be there to help with invitations or work on centerpieces. You won't be there to take in the hem of my dress or tell me how beautiful I look. You won't be there to dance with him on our wedding day, after he dances with his mom. You won't be there for all the firsts, you won't be there for our kids, you won't be there when I'm scared or angry or confused or uncertain and I just need my mommy to make it better.

You'd love the ring, Mom. It's vintage, just like I wanted, and it's simple, just like me. It fits perfectly, and it's just so beautiful. It's a little weird to wear - you know I don't wear rings very much - but I'm getting used to it. I can't keep myself from staring at it - it's so glittery!

I wish you were here, to tell me what it's like. To tell me what marriage, what being a partner is really like. I wish you were here to help me transition from being single to being not single. It's a big transition! Were you ever scared?

I wish you could meet him, Mom. He's a wonderful man. So kind, so loving, so generous, so loyal. And funny. You'd really dig his sense of humor. And he'd really dig your baking skills.

I miss you, Mom. I wish, more than anything right now, that you were here. I never imagined being here without you. I know I'll get through it, but it really hurts right now. I love you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you....

I wish.




*And yes, my fiancé (heehee, fiancé!) knows about this post, and knows about this sadness, and he sits with me in it. He's pretty amazing that way.

As

(or, in case this gets taken down, go here)

"Just as time knew to move on since the beginning
And the seasons know exactly when to change

Just as kindness knows no shame
Know through all your joy and pain
That I'll be loving you always"

I'll be loving you always, Mom. And, somehow, I think you're loving me always too.

The Seventeenth

It's April 17th again. The date that always looms, especially as it draws near. I always wonder what the 17th will hold. Last year, one year out, was sweet, and painful. This year, two years out, could be anything.

So I took the day off, and I planned nothing for today. I readied myself to cry and mourn and pull out my hair. I have chocolate and Gilmore Girls on standby, and good friends and a boyfriend who are ready with their comfort and support.

And you know what? Today, so far, has been a good day.

Maybe I did most of my grieving around Easter. Maybe year two is just different than year one. Maybe its actually getting easier as time passes. Maybe I'll be wracked with grief later this afternoon.

Whatever the reason, today I am thankful for life. For the small things - the apple blossoms on the tree outside, the sunshine, yoga. For the big things - my sister's coming baby, a loving boyfriend, my hopes and dreams for the future. There are so many signs of life all around me. Maybe my experience of loss and grief is giving me the eyes to see them anew today.

Thankfully I know that this is what my mom would have wanted. She would want me to grieve, sure, but also to laugh. She would want me to celebrate the beautiful things that have come my way, even the ones she wasn't around for. And her pleasure at my joy makes today so bittersweet that I'm smiling and crying and laughing all at the same time.

There will always be hard moments (or hours, or days, or weeks). Memories will pop up at unexpected times and bring me to my knees in pain and sadness. But joy, and the assurance of good things, is tipping the scale in the direction of life. And that is a good thing.

I love you, Mom. Thank you for guiding me into sweetness instead of bitterness today.

These women

I can't get over these women. These women who were there at the crucifixion, there outside the tomb just before the Sabbath began, there when the sun rose on Sunday morning. These women who were obedient to the Sabbath, and waited for 24 hours before lovingly returning to the tomb to preserve Jesus' body with spices and perfumes. These women who didn't know how they would get past the heavy stone blocking the entrance but who went to the tomb anyway. These women who, when they saw the angels and saw the risen Christ, didn't hesitate to tell the other disciples. These women - afraid, yet filled with joy. These women - faithful even in the face of disbelief. 

My mom was one of these women. Her sister died of cancer just before I was born, and she still believed. She had breast cancer when I was 10, and she still believed. She believed when her mom was killed by a drunk driver, and she believed when my dad became disabled. She kept believing to the end - through the stroke, the cancer diagnosis, the rehab, the radiation & chemo, and even through her last weeks and days, as she slowly deteriorated. Her belief, her faithfulness - it doesn't really make sense. It boggles my mind that she could be so sure for so long in the midst of so much. But she, like these women...

My dad likes to tell this story: One afternoon after an MRI and a doctor's visit she and my dad went to get a milkshake at In-N-Out, and they had the Christian radio station playing. The song "Untitled Hymn" came on, and when it got to the last verse my mom said, "that's what’s happening to me." The last verse says:

And with your final heartbeat
kiss the world goodbye
then go in peace and laugh on glory's side

And fly to Jesus
fly to Jesus
fly to Jesus and live

She, like these women, believed the risen Christ. She, like these women, like Mary Magdalene, knew her Rabboni's voice. She, like these women, remained faithful to the end. May my faith in the risen Savior be like that of her, and these women.

{ _____ }

Holy Saturday.

The day with no liturgy. The day with almost no reference in scripture. The day of Sabbath, of waiting.

This day is bookended by the presence of the women. Different tellings give us different women - Mary Magdelene, "the other Mary," Mary the mother of James and Joseph, Salome, Joanna. These women were there for his burial, and they were there early in the morning after the Sabbath, while it was still dark. These faithful women were the last to see him buried and the first to see him risen.

But in between, there was nothing. In between there was only death.

We don't like to sit in death. We're a little better about sitting with the dying. Dying - it's active, and it makes us feel like there's still something we can do. Keep vigil. Watch and pray.

We can even handle death when it comes, the moment that life leaves the body. There's something about a person who has just died, something about how they look and feel that doesn't feel foreign to us - it's still our loved one, it's still the same person we were sitting with just moments ago. It is finished.

But after. After, things change. After, the body gets cold. The person who was just there a few a hours ago is gone. And all that is left is the shell - the lifeless, pale, breath-less, circulation-less body. The person, our loved one who was just there isn't there any longer. Instead, it's just death.

I still don't know how to sit in that death. After the hospice nurse came, I went and sat in the living room with my family. We waited for the people from the funeral home to come and get her. And we didn't see her body again after that. We had her cremated, like she wanted - but also like we wanted. I don't think any of us wanted to see her body again, not even if it had been made up to look alive by the mortician. It still wouldn't have been her, it would have just been her body, her dead body, her lifeless body. It would have been too much death.

It took 3 months, 22 days, 12 hours and 30 minutes for her death to be real for me. For me to know that she was gone and she wasn't coming back. For me to be able to sit in her death.

But on Holy Saturday that's what we're called to. On Holy Saturday we're asked to sit in the death of Jesus. Not his dying, not his rising, not his foot washing, praying, betrayal, arrest, crucifixion. His death. His body, lifeless, pale, breath-less, circulation-less, laying in a tomb.

I read this reflection by Barbara Brown Taylor on Holy Saturday of 2014:

I had been to Jerusalem, so I knew how tombs looked in those days: low holes in rock walls, with narrow bunks inside to hold the dead bodies until the flesh on them was gone and the bones could be gathered up for safe-keeping. 

That was where Jesus spent Holy Saturday: in a dark hole in the ground, doing absolutely nothing. It was the Sabbath, after all. His friends had worked hard to make sure he was laid to rest before the sun went down. Then they went home to rest too, because that was what they did on Saturdays. Once it was clear that there was nothing they could do to secure their own lives or the lives of those they loved, they rested in the presence of the Maker of All Life and waited to see what would happen next. 

Though Christians speak of "witnesses to the resurrection," there were no witnesses. Everyone who saw Jesus alive again saw him after. As many years as I have been listening to Easter sermons, I have never heard anyone talk about that part. Resurrection is always announced with Easter lilies, the sound of trumpets, bright streaming light. But it did not happen that way. Whatever happened to Jesus between Saturday and Sunday, it happened in the dark, with the smell of damp stone and dug earth in the air. It happened where no one but him could talk about it later, and he did not talk about it -- at least not so anyone could explain it to anyone else.

On Holy Saturday we sit in Jesus' death, as his body lies in a dark hole in the ground, doing nothing. It's dank, it's dark, it's morbid and it's not where we like to be. But in that darkness, in that the hole in the ground, in the smell of damp stone and dug earth, life came. We have to sit in the death so we can know the life.

And so I sit and wait this Holy Saturday. I sit in my mom's death, and I sit in the death of Jesus. I look down into the dark hole and hope that I witness that small, still moment, shrouded in darkness, where death is swallowed up by life.

My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?

Good Friday.

The Friday that is only good because of what follows on Sunday. The Friday filled with the pain and agony of Jesus' public and humiliating death.

It's also my mom's birthday.

But this year, this arrangement of dates feels appropriate. I started my journey through her last days yesterday, when I sat in her cry that was Jesus' too. Stay with me. Remain here with me. Watch and pray. 

Today I remember the pain. No, there was no public humiliation, no torturous instrument of death, no bearing all the sins of the world at once, no torn temple curtain. But the pain, the physical pain - that she and Jesus had in common.

Her breaths that became shallower and shallower, more and more labored. Her mouth that couldn't stay moist, no matter how much water or ice we gave her. Her cries each time we tried to move her, each time we adjusted her position in the bed or changed her diaper. That pain was the worst - there was no way to avoid it, and no medicine that could stop it.

She wasn't in constant agony - we had the morphine, and we used it. We kept her pain at bay as best we could while still keeping her breathing. But she still felt it, she still hurt.

I wish... I wish she hadn't had to feel any pain. I wish we could have given her just the right amount of medicine to keep her breathing and pain free. I wish she didn't have any cause to say "my God, my God..." but I think, in her moments of pain, her spirit cried out like that of her Lord. My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?

As I sit in and remember her pain, and my pain too, I can't quite look forward yet. I know that Sunday is coming, that Easter is near, that the resurrection of Jesus makes all the difference. But right now I need to sit in the pain, the disappointment, the despair of Friday before I can get to the hope of Sunday. I need to sit in the terrible Friday that the disciples experienced two thousand years ago - the hopeless Friday, the embarrassing Friday, the Friday that was the end. The Friday they experienced without the promise of new life two days later.

Sunday will come. But today, on this terrible/Good Friday, I just feel the pain.