Sorrow for which I am thankful

Nineteen years ago, on this very day, 7 January 2006, I lost my mum. I remember the whole period leading up to her passing from the month before she died vividly. It’s a strange memory now. I’m fascinated by it because of how much it saddens me. My mother was my strong support. She was fierce in how she loved me. She didn’t hesitate to tell me off when I needed to be told off. I’m thankful for that. It’s been nineteen years and it all feels so alive in many aspects. Losing my dad just a little over a year ago has compounded this. He’s not here to share this moment with me. I remember how his shirts were drenched in tears when he returned from the stairwell. He had stepped aside to process the news we received about mum having six hours left to live. He cried his heart out too. It was such a hard time for us. I used to have papa to share this time with.

Mummy and I shared everything. I am thankful for this. She didn’t manipulate me. She spoke to me candidly about how she felt about different things. This has perhaps shaped me. Maybe it is why I value conversation so much. It was why I missed her so much. My dad was a lot less natural at conversations. He was quiet and though he would have things to say, he enjoyed not talking. I think he was quite the introvert. While it was harder teasing out discussions with my dad, with mum they flowed. 

In the past I have shared much about my wonderful mother. I think what I have had the chance to reflect on now that my dad is gone is that there was a part of her that only he brought out. I remember them discussing things. It’d be all sorts of things- even as mundane as what we should eat for the week. The thing that was good about them was that they talked. They talked about a lot of things. When I was very young, they’d wait till I went to bed before having the adult chats. A few times, when I suspected they were discussing me, I’d try to listen from the middle of the staircase, only to be caught out by my reflection in the display glass! I think what I really loved at that time was that there was this conversation going on and I wanted to be a part of it. Good conversations are hard to come by. 

My parents didn’t always have the easiest of marriages. Mum’s illness took a toll on both her and my dad. People around weren’t always helpful in advice. Mum saw this much later, and shared this with me just before she passed away. She said that whenever I had friends who were married, I needed to always help them uphold the marriage. She didn’t mean things like remaining in an abusive marriage, but she meant making sure that advice wasn’t inflammatory but rather conciliatory. Over the years, I’ve come to really appreciate this. My dad worked his socks off to support my mum in her illness. Because of what he did, she was able to work right to the end. Because of the sacrifices he made, she was able to do a lot. She saw that. As she studied the Bible, these were things that she grew to be grateful for. Contentment, I’m told, is a powerful sign of grace. It means we’re looking at the giver of our blessings with thankful hearts, not demanding for what is next. For this reason, as I reflect on my mum and my dad, I am thankful for the struggles they had in their marriage. It has helped me understand too what my strengths and limitations are. This has helped me see what is important.

I too have impacted my own mum. She loved no one else more. She talked of me with pride. She was anxious for me. She cheered me on. She held me when I cried. It brought out a side so strong in her. This part of her protected my dad a lot too. I always thought of papa as cool as a cucumber and I always thought I inherited that calmness from him. After mum passed, I started noticing his anxiety on the rise. There was once in 2007, a year after mum had passed, when I was driving home very late from Melaka, with music blasting and me singing along, that I completely missed my father’s phone calls. He was frantically trying to make sure I was fine. I was quite near home when I realised the calls and answered. The relief was so obvious even over the phone. It made me see a side of him that I never saw before. I started seeing him trying to cheer me on. Not that he didn’t do it in the past, but he would let her use her flair with words to encourage, comfort, or even confront. After the late drive back from Melaka, I did have a chat with my dad. He admitted that now, without mummy being the worried one, he had lost his buffer. Each of us brought something out in the other that only we could do. 

Nineteen years on, I miss this. I miss my mother. Now I miss my father as well. His absence makes hers worse. Her absence makes his worse. I cannot separate the two. Talk about a no win situation! I am able to function well despite this sadness. It really is a part of me. Sorrow isn’t always a bad thing. In the beginning, I used to think it was wrong to feel sad. I don’t feel that anymore. Sorrow has its place in my life. It is the place where I remember how much I was loved. It is a place where I am thankful for my mum and dad and for how they loved me and I loved them. It is a privilege we were given and I am thankful for it. Let this sorrow always remind me of the goodness of God, for I couldn’t have had a better mum or dad. I recognise too that sorrow isn’t always granted a place at the table. There will be times when I won’t be given a space because I carry this sorrow. I’m okay with that too. I like remembering that Jesus was a Man of Sorrows. Maybe He is using my sorrow to help me long more for Him. 

Mummy, it’s been nineteen years. Way too long for my liking. I miss you and I’m struggling too with papa’s absence. I’m thankful for how God helps me see His goodness in my sadness. When my time comes, we will be reunited with Him- and different days will then follow. I won’t have this pain for there will be no more tears. I know I will thank God so much for that then. For now, this sorrow is familiar and it brings both you and papa close to me. For now, I will be content. For now, I can thank Him for the sorrow that lives in my heart nineteen years on.