Author: anitastephen2015

I usually write a blog over Easter. I wasn’t sure if I could this time. My mind has been in a flurry. It’s amazing to me how the grief I’m going through is impacting my body in new ways. Inflammation levels in my body have been skyrocketing and my RA’s having a field day. RA is a systematic disease so it’s impacting other parts of my health. My rheumatologist was concerned when I went to see him two weeks ago. Our usually lighthearted chat was a bit sober when he explained the dangers and the need for increased medication. It didn’t help that I was upset by the results and bawled my eyes out. I’ve been working so hard to be well. I’ve been eating right for years, exercising heaps and heaps, and it all feels like a pointless effort. It also makes me think – I miss my father. It will be my first Easter without him, my eighteenth without my mum, and my first without both. I miss home.

I’ve calmed down a little over the last two weeks. I think the medications are helping. There have also been all sorts of other news since – close friends losing loved ones, close friends needing good help at home but struggling to find it, close friends struggling with long-term health issues, and close friends dealing with terminal illnesses of their loved ones. My brain has felt lots of shock and sadness as I’ve received these bits of news. It feels like a whole season of struggle where the hits just keep on coming. There doesn’t need to be so many chart topping hits in this category of struggle. The whole thing has been staggering. In the middle of this, a tiny voice at the back of my head reminds me I miss my father. It will be my first Easter without him, my eighteenth without my mum, and my first without both. I miss home.

Perhaps it is right that my thoughts on the season of struggle coincides with the approach of Good Friday and Easter. Now that’s an example of bittersweet if ever there was one. Bitter because of what it cost Jesus, the Son of God, and sweet because of the implications of his resurrection that we celebrate and reflect upon. This year, I cannot help but be thankful that there is the cross and the resurrection to hold on to. My parents believed and they taught me their faith. Christ died for our sins and all who believe in Him are given eternal life and the right to be called children of God (John 1: 12-13). I don’t know why I’m so thankful for Good Friday and Easter this year. It doesn’t change the fact that neither papa or mummy are here with me. It will be my first Easter without papa, my eighteenth without mummy, and my first without both. I miss home.

Whilst Good Friday/Easter don’t change my present day circumstances, they give me hope, which I think my situation would otherwise have sucked out of me. I have hope that this low feeling of dread that constantly pops up is not permanent. I have hope that this hole in my heart from missing my dad’s calm, quiet presence is not permanent. I have hope that this eighteen year wound in my soul left by mum’s departure is not permanent. I have hope that my home so gut wrenchingly shattered is not irrevocably gone. In the middle of this season of struggle where I feel wave upon wave of sadness – my own and for my closest and dearest friends whose sorrows I cannot but feel for, it is good to have hope. Not just any kind of hope, but certain hope. Move over Jedis, here comes Jesus. I know I can trust Jesus. Why? Because He is good. He is well and truly good. There’s a verse in the Bible that says that one will scarcely die for a righteous person, but that perhaps for a good person, one would even dare to die (Romans 5:7). The truth is, not a single person can say that they are deserving of Jesus’ death because not a single one of us is good enough (Romans 5:8). Jesus knows me at my worst. He knows the evil in my heart, the lack of charity in my thoughts, and the slowness that prevents my doing good. Yet He took my place and died for me. He defeated my death, so that this pain I have, this heartache of a life, is but temporary. It is much to be thankful for because I am sad. This will be my first Easter without papa, my eighteenth without mummy, and my first without both. I miss home. Jesus gives me hope – that my story doesn’t end on this note.

Papa and mummy- never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever feel this way. I know we each had our imperfections – it wasn’t always Christlike. Yet, I am grateful to you for teaching me about the cross. I know we will meet again because of Jesus. This gratitude is mixed with sadness – I have tears. It will be my first Easter without you, papa, my eighteenth without you, mummy, and my first without you both. I miss home.

Gamora just killed a squirrel. I heard a loud commotion in the garden- a very loud squeal, and I went out to see what was going on. In the bright light that lights up the garden at night, my little hunter, stood so proudly over her kill. I was of course not so proud. Earlier this morning, she caught a pigeon, which thankfully, we were able to get away from her. That’s a second pigeon that will know not to reckon with mini Gamora. She’s such a hunter.

You can see her predator mode coming on as her head goes low, and her body goes rigid. She’s also very patient. When she’s trying to catch lizards, and she has caught countless lizards, she waits and watches. My little bubba, who can hardly keep still sits so patiently watching before she launches her attack. Sometimes, to disarm her prey, she makes little moaning sounds, a little lost pup so innocently calling out, except that her head is angled to jump forth and grab her prey. I guess her dachshund genes are shining through here. It’s interesting to watch her!

Gamora’s such a character. She’s the most loving pup. She’s always waiting to lick you (remember her hunting habits and you’ll be thrilled!). She loves it when friends and family come over. She has different intensities of greetings. My cousin who usually looks after her gets an extremely warm, frenzied welcome. She even has her favourite delivery man. He calls her ‘sayang’ and ‘manja’. Gamora loves with her entire being. Her go to move is to then flop over and show you her belly. This little one loves belly rubs.

Gamora’s a very happy pup. From the moment she wakes up to the time I carry her up to bed, she’s full of bounce and action. I love the way her ears flop about. You usually find them flopping backwards. She races in and out of the house, and is on constant security patrols around the house and garden. Not too long ago, we had a long, slithery visitor. She did enough to startle the snake till I went outside. She was safe – and the moment I picked her up, the snake made a dash to safety. Gamora was so brave! I’m the unwilling participant in all this! In our home, it was my dad who dealt with stuff like this and it’s been decades since we had snakes!

It’s so good to have Gamora around. She only knew my dad for five months, before he passed on. She still looks for him, and sometimes when I lie down on his bed, she curls up next to me licking any tears I cry. She’s been licking lots of tears since I lost my dad. She senses the moments I feel low, and immediately her good behaviour mode kicks in. It’s hard to believe that she’s the same bundle of mischief who’s so short but is able to leap up to the dining table and steal things off kitchen counters. I appreciate her good behaviour efforts so very much.

In a few days (13 March), it will be a year since Gamora came into our home. I remember the day I went to get her and how my dad and I watched her as she curled up close to me, shy of her new surroundings. We watched with much amusement and joy as she stole slippers, dug holes in the garden (at one time we actually had eighteen holes!), and played. She was such a delight. She still is. This curious mix of pug and dachshund is the perfect blend of pup for me.

Even so, I feel an immense sadness as I think of her first year anniversary with me because I’m missing my dad. These days there are many moments like this. Extreme sadness because my dad, and mum are both no more with me, and joy in blessings that are so apt for me. Some people have been commenting that if only I’d got married or had children, I wouldn’t feel the loss of my dad and mum so much. It’s such a stupid suggestion. It shocks me. I think I won’t say anymore about the suggestion because I cannot muster the grace to deal with that stupidity. I must say that I am processing my grief, and as I do it, I can see that God in His wisdom has given me the exact blessings that I would cherish, and that really lift my spirits. I include some friends in this who have really been constant in their friendship and love towards me at this time. I definitely include Gamora. She’s my bright little spark. A canon ball of energy and joy.

So I thank God. I thank God that despite this time of heartbreak and sorrow, I am still able to have some laughs and joy. It matters so much to me because while I keep thinking of my future secured by Jesus, I’m in the now and His grace is indeed sufficient for me. Thank you, God, for papa and mummy. Thank you for my darling Gamora. I am grateful beyond words.

Papa, you’d have really enjoyed Gamora! I keep thinking how she’d have plotted to get your teatime stash of goodies! She misses you, even though she knew you for a fleeting time. I’ve known you my whole life, and I miss you so very much. I miss mummy so much too.

Since my dad passed away last August I’ve been in a terrible rheumatoid arthritis flare. It’s the stress from the grief that’s doing it and there has been a lot to deal with. So many things are playing in my mind. The biggest thing is really coming to terms with my dad’s absence. That’s really hard to do. I want him to call out to me to get something or even just to find him watching the TV or pouring over Sudoku. It’d be a bit of normalcy then.

The flare has been quite dreadful, if I’m honest. There are points where I wonder if I’ll walk again. I’m so grateful for the days where I hit a high step count or close all the rings on my Apple Watch fitness tracker. Big wins! It has been really difficult. I’ve had to skip church quite a bit because I’m in way too much pain. I’m so grateful for the service that’s streamed live. I’ve had to stop some friends from coming over on some days and I’ve had to decline going over when asked. I’m very grateful for the graciousness that I’ve been met with. There are phone calls and messages that I’m thankful for. Really grateful.

Something triggered the memory of the time my dad was knocked down by a motorcyclist. This was absolute ages ago. I remember my mum calling me. I remember panic and calm- such a strange combination of feelings. They blank out a lot of other things going on. I remember how we came together, the three of us, as a family. There are things I had to do – like sit in a room with my dad overnight in hospital as they were understaffed, and drain the flow of blood from the wound of surgery. The steadiness of my hands shocked me, and even the doctors and nurses who attended at varying points had good comments. My mum saw the collapse – the jumble of nerves and fear within me came out before her. How she encouraged me. My dad eventually came through (after some challenges). He never gave up. God saw us through. Battered, perhaps. Exhausted, for sure. Thankful, definitely.

I don’t know if these memories have triggered the flare I’m dealing with now. There are joints in my fingers that I have very clear knowledge of. Some of these should never be known. My ankles look like they’ve seen better days, and I can see the disfigurement slowly happening. I’ve said goodbye to gorgeous shoes. There’s nothing elegant about this disease. There’s nothing about it to like. No saving grace. My mum passed on well before I was diagnosed. Her biggest fear was that I would get what she had. She never wanted it for me. My father dealt with it. Resolute and quiet. He said things at the right time. In my previous job, which I absolutely loved, I had zero space where I could fit in a doctor’s appointment. I was part of a small team and whenever someone was away, the rhythm of the team faltered. So I kept pushing back doctor’s appointments and for almost a year after being diagnosed, did nothing. My father’s quiet words came ringing through loud and clear. I knew what needed to be done. I left the job, did some freelance work, while attending to my illness. It was time that I am grateful for. I read up, spoke to doctors, joined support groups, and got educated on my illness, its unpredictability, and speciality in ravaging the human body. I shared a lot of this with my dad. It felt like we were able in hindsight to even make sense of a lot of what had happened to my mum. The learning in this area is astounding now in comparison to what it was when my mum suffered.

I’ve been struggling to figure out what it was about the memories triggered that have been playing in my mind. Not everything was bad. My mother’s RA was extremely severe. I remember when my dad was prepped for surgery, both mum and I met him before he was wheeled off to the operating theatre. My mum wasn’t able to walk alongside as they wheeled him off, but she asked me to go. I was conscious I was walking away from her to accompany my dad, but I could sense her calm composure. I held my dad’s hand as I walked alongside but we came to final doors and I couldn’t go through. My dad’s final words to me at that point were that it was okay and to trust in God. When I think about it, it was more calm composure.

I’m not saying that my parents never had moments of panic or despair. They did. The memories I have of the time of this accident remind me of the highs and lows we had as a family. Just the three of us at core, dealing with things with lots of grace shown to us through others around. I remember the worries I had – whether my dad would ever drive again, whether I’d be able to manage both mum and dad if my dad wasn’t going to be mobile as before, etc. There were a lot of worries. I remember how my mum and dad dealt with some of these fears I shared over games of scrabble or tea time chats. There was a steely grit. They weren’t interested in fluffy cliches that got thrown our way. They constantly reminded me that we cannot predict the future but that we were in God’s Hands.

I think this is the reminder that’s really striking me. In my church, we’re in the middle of a sermon series from the gospel of Matthew. I’ve been pondering on Jesus’ interactions with a Canaanite woman (Matthew 15: 21-28), and Jesus’ warning about the leaven of the Pharisees and the Sadducees (Matthew 16: 1-12). These bits of scripture are really speaking to me. As I deal with pain from my RA (triggered by grief), there are constantly many ‘words of wisdom’ that come my way. In my exhaustion, I have to deal with people who may be well-meaning but end up being more damaging, who tell me about all sorts of remedies, treatments, lifestyles, etc. The list is long. I’m often judged when I say I don’t want to know about a lot of these things. Most of these are quack remedies that don’t deal with the root problem, though they are often wrapped in legitimate terminology). They will not help. I can’t help but think of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees. Wrong teachings from scripture, things that are out of context, though may sound legit and sweet, don’t feed. They don’t nurture the soul and they cannot save. However, scripture in context can be hard hitting. It may not always be sweet sounding – just read the interaction with the Canaanite woman. Hard and unpopular as it may be, it saves.

I think this is what’s in my mind as I reflect on this past memory of my dad’s accident. When we came together as a family, it was based on God’s Word. We didn’t know the outcomes. As memory serves, my parents weren’t overcome by this challenge. We had heaps of grace. I reflect on this as I struggle to even put my full weight on my feet today. My step count for the day will suffer. Typing this out has been hard too- very slow in comparison to my usual speed. Yet I have such a song in my heart. It’s a song of hope. I’m singing it to Jesus who has time after time shown me that He is my constant. I’m not sure how it’s going to be after this. My whole world is upside down because of grief. This illness is another factor. I want to remember that ‘even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table’ (Matthew 15: 27). Thanks to Jesus, I now am guaranteed a place at the table. It will be more like how it is for Gamora at the table! This is a difficult time, but I’m thankful that I don’t have to be afraid or figure it all out.

Papa and mummy, it is hard without you. Thank you for what you taught me.

I’m writing this from Lombok. It’s the first day of Chinese New Year, a long weekend in Malaysia and some quiet time away for me. I wish I could fully describe the blue of the sea – the different shades of blue with hints of green, the whiteness and blackness of the sand with bunches of seaweed strewn all over the place, and glorious blue sky dotted with soft white clouds. It’s beautiful. So beautiful.

The beauty of Lombok is making me miss home. I wish I could bundle little Gamora up and bring her along with me at times like this. Gosh, she’d love it here. There are some friendly beach dogs too. One decided to walk with me both times I went for walks yesterday. He was sweet and I could just picture Gamora going into play mode with her wiggly bum in the air, while head bowed low. It’s hard to leave home because of Gamora.

It’s also hard to leave home because I no longer have my dad to call home to. I missed him so much prior to coming here. I could just hear his voice asking me if I’d packed alongside a whole set of questions about prep for the trip. I’ve shared before that it is difficult when I cannot call home. I feel that keenly this time too. He’d have loved to have heard about the walks and how it all felt.

I’ve to say that I’m very grateful for the friends who have been in communication with me even while I’m here in Lombok. Chatting to them makes me feel like I’m sharing this time with people who are dear to me and who care. It’s a new dimension of grace that I’m seeing – so much care coming in from quarters that were already caring but are now showing me more than I ever imagined, or from those that I never knew cared so much – and are making me want to return the act for them. It is all blessing. I am grateful.

I’m writing this because I’m contemplating the new definition of home for me. I miss home and I have it in mind that it’s Chinese New Year and many friends of mine will be gathering together with their families. It adds to my thoughts about home. As a Christian, I believe that my ultimate home will be when Christ comes again or takes me back to Him. It’s something I look forward to for several reasons- it will be the chance to see Jesus in person (I have many versions in my head of how this will be). Another reason is the reunion with my parents. Maybe a year or two after my mum passed away, I had this dream of her, my dad and me together. It was special and I now think back more on that dream- I think a reunion with them would be glorious. It will also be a reunion with friends and in many ways, I hope with my dogs. And if I’m allowed a bit of cheekiness, I’m dying to finally meet King David. Jesus will be my new home. It will be perfect- I cannot imagine it. No tears. No pain.

That home is still on a distant horizon for I don’t know when I’ll get to it. I have to contend with home here. My earthly home as I know it is forever altered. Not only is there a loss of my parents, there is a new reality too. Some of the ones I thought would be there, aren’t. Some just don’t have the capacity – and I get this: we are different and have different needs, life happens and people go through so much. I think they have a lot to deal with. It doesn’t change the outcome for me, they’re not there. Then, there are some who are just nothing short of blessings.

My best friend is an example. There she is in the north west of England, and here I am in Asia. We have distance and a time difference of about 6-7 hours (depending on the clocks in the UK). Not easy factors to reconcile. Yet, day after day, she manages to make me feel at home. I cannot thank her enough. It’s mind blowing. She’s a blessing. She and her family have taken me in. It’s hard to explain and I don’t mean to say no one else matters – coz everyone does. For sure. But there’s something about the way she’s meeting me where I’m at that’s very helpful. It’s a real godsend. Another example would be my girlfriends here in Malaysia. I love how they come by and spend time with me. We have so much to talk about that’s deep, silly and just so dear to me. Some who are from far message me – rather aptly with different things. I mentioned the lack of shade here in Lombok and how I missed my dad to a dear friend who responded that she wished she could convert her umbrella into a parasol and told me of how she considered her late mum’s pride at her travels. It was just what I needed to hear! There are a some of my brothers in Christ who’re the same. They are so kind. I cannot tell you how spoilt I am to be cared for so much. I’m dealing with a broken heart and all these folks are the balm I need.

And this brings me back to God. Ultimately, He’s the one who’s sending me all these lovely people. He’s the one who’s causing the outpouring of love I’m receiving. I think it’s because ultimately, He’s the one who really understands me. I’ve been feeling very alone. Without my mother, life had become extremely quiet. To lose my dad has meant that I need to get used to a certain silence that I’m not used to. I’ve felt alone. I’ve also found that it’s not always easy to be understood. I’ve found that only a few have the ability to understand and respond to me in a way that is meaningful (and I hope I can do the same). This is why I am so convinced they are blessings put in my life by Jesus. In Proverbs 8, we hear about lady Wisdom who makes astounding claims of having been there with God when the world was created, and when we were made. There are many similarities between lady Wisdom and Jesus. They call after us, they make a case for why we should receive them, but neither force themselves upon us. The reading of Proverbs 8 made me see that God in all His Wisdom made me a certain way. He knew how it would be and He knew just what I would need. He understands me so well that He sends me blessings that are so precious and helpful to me in the form of the people I’ve mentioned. I think too even of how little Gamora came into my life. Every step was ordained. She and all these people I’m talking about are a balm. This is blessing and I want to acknowledge it. I want to thank God and praise His Name for being so wise and for knowing just what this brokenhearted girl needs. I am at a loss to describe how loved I feel even in the depths of my despair.

Right now, I want to be elsewhere. I want to go home. It’s exactly eighteen years today (7 January 2024), since my mum passed away and it’s just about four and a half months since my dad passed on. My home as I know it is no more. It’s such a strange cocktail of emotions, I feel I want to burst. It’s a lot to take in.

This morning, I took little Gamora out for a walk. I decided I would skip church and give myself a break from conversations that would potentially make me have to blink back tears. I could be Waterworks Ltd., and specialise in the production of salty tears. The weather forecast said cloudy with a chance of drizzle, and I thought it would mean a less crowded park. How wrong I was. The park was full of people. Families came out in droves to have picnics, kids played in the kiddie area, people fished by the lake, while some avid joggers and brisk walkers moved swiftly and rather efficiently through the masses.

Walking with Gamora is lovely. She delights in every thing and it’s infectious. As we walked near the lake, it felt calm- even though Gamy girl’s (one of Gamora’s many nicknames) ears and tongue flopped ferociously. I thought of my parents. My dad didn’t speak much about my mum after she passed. It wasn’t his thing. Yet, every December, I start reliving the events that led up to the moment she passed. I would tell my dad that such and such was the date that I flew off to the UK, and that such and such was the date my best friend married her beau, and that such and such was the date I started trying get a flight back, such and such was the date we took mummy to hospital, etc. Papa would hold my hand or hug me or pat my back. I miss him as I’ve continued missing mummy. Home as I knew it was altered in 2006 when mummy left, but it was still home, just beaten and weathered. This recent alteration because of papa’s passing, affects adjustments I’ve made in heart and mind. My home is no more. It’s gone.

As Gamora and I walked, she spotted a group of people who were walking their dogs of which there were four in total. Gamora’s ever the social butterfly and made strides to go towards these other doggies. It’s interesting to see how doggies interact. There’s a whole lot of caution at first which includes all sorts of signals to show that it’s a friendly approach. Then there’s a short burst of play and they settle down into a calm time where they continue in each other’s presence. We all walked together, which was fun for Gamora- walking in a pack. Her tongue lolled about and she looked like a giant bunny jumping about instead of a pup running along. I was proud of her because even a very timid doggie found her approachable. We even got the dogs to take a pic together. And then, all of a sudden, everything was too much for Gam-Gam (another of Gamora’s nicknames) and she turned around wanting me to carry her. It was in that moment that my heart broke. That’s what I’m missing right now as I mourn eighteen years without mummy. Papa’s not here to comfort me.

After we parted ways, I took Gamora on the scenic route back to the car. My mind was in a buzz. In Psalm 90:12, the Psalmist asks God to ‘teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.’ There are many aspects to wisdom. For me now, as I grieve eighteen years without my mum and some months without my dad, the wisdom I need is in navigating pain. I’m cognisant of the fact that the only thing that is constant and unchanging is God. The words in Isaiah 40: 6-8 speak to me: ‘A voice says, “Cry!” And I said, “What shall I cry?” All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades when the breath of the LORD blows on it; surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.’ Focus on God isn’t always easy. I try. I need His grace.

Eighteen years feel like a long time for many things, but they don’t feel like a long time ago when I remember my mum’s passing. It’s raw still where my dad’s concerned- and I’m resigned to having these emotions within me for a long time to come. Just as my little Gamora needed me to hold her in my arms for a bit (even in the middle of enjoyment), I need comfort too. Up to eighteen years ago, it was my mum and dad who provided it, and then up to four months ago, it was my dad. I recognise that there was Jesus there all the way, because flawed individuals cannot provide such comfort to one another. So I am thankful to Him for that. I now seek His grace as I adjust to His comfort. He continues to provide comfort in ways I don’t know, or through channels I can’t foresee. I must trust Him to continue with His provision. I’m thankful to Jesus for various people in my life, who remind me that this provision hasn’t run out. I’m thankful to Jesus for Gamora and the darling she is. I continue to be thankful for my parents.

Mummy, your leaving changed our home so much. Now papa is with you in rest, things have changed even more. I miss you so much. That’s never going to change.

Usually the whole Christmas period is a reflective one for me. Long ago, when my mum was alive, we’d have some massive open houses. The scale of cooking was unbelievable and by the end of the day, we could hardly feel our feet for the soreness. Yet, my parents and I would sit down together and enjoy the quiet of the night by chatting. We’d reflect on the events of the day, hope that we’d welcomed our visitors well, and always end on the real meaning of Christmas. They would always say that however scrappy and messy that first Christmas was in a stable, everyone was welcome. It was a good reminder. I loved those times so much. Over the years, things changed, as my mum’s illness progressed. We didn’t have massive open houses anymore, but we always had some friends over. The winding down moments were still so special and the sentiments expressed never changed.

In January 2006, my mum passed away. My world collapsed. There’s a lot I lost then that I’ve never regained. It took me a long time to understand all that. I remember too the pressure I felt to be okay. Everyone wants you to be okay! I remember the saree I wore to church. I made such a huge effort – more than usual. I even managed to go to a cousin’s home with my dad, armed with presents and cheer. I remember too very clearly how I crumbled by my dad when we got home. We chatted very little… he just hugged me close and patted my back. I knew then that things had changed forever.

My dad and I got back into a rhythm of sorts. It took time for us to do this. Think he went along at my speed, which I think was tortoise like. We didn’t always join the wider family celebrations on Christmas Day. Mostly it was too painful for me to be where I was consistently reminded of my mum’s absence. However, I wanted to continue opening up our home to friends – and we did this, slowly but surely. I remember how friends came alongside me to help me with prep. I remember calming words spoken to me. I remember my dad telling me that as long as we remember the real reason for Christmas in our hearts, it was okay. We’d also continue our reflections. As he got older, my dad would sometimes excuse himself and go to bed, even while guests were around. He had started getting tired. Friends understood, of course. Long after he went off to bed, when our guests left, I’d go to his room and find him awake, waiting for me. We’d chat about how it all went, how it used to be, and why we celebrate Christmas.

This year, is my seventeenth Christmas without my mum and my first without my dad. It really hurt. It hurts to even think of the new year. I’m not ready to walk into 2024. It feels like I have to leave so much behind.

It’s been a very quiet Christmas and lead up to the new year. I’ve had family and friends dropping by and even staying over. I went to church on Christmas Day, with a cousin. We played with Gamora, had some food, and watched stuff on Netflix. It’s been lovely taking Gamora for walks. I’m trying my hand at gardening – with a handful of plants. I’m delighted when I see something sprouting, as I’ve been known to even kill cactuses. I’ve been trying to do some art. Nothing too fancy. I’ve been doing a whole load of things to keep busy. I miss my father and my mother so much right now.

Now we’re at the end of 2024. I don’t have the secret to slowing down time. Doubt there’s one. It hurts me that I’m going to be moving away from my parents in a way like never before. I had my dad for a long time. It’s not going to be the same without him. Not in the least.

There’s some unkindness around. People want me to move on and not cry. They tell me my parents would be upset by my sadness. I’ve been quite busy blocking contact with such ones. I know that my mum and dad would never want me to be sad but I know that they would understand better than others, why it is I’m sad. I know too that God understands this process.

Loss is something that God endured – in what was the most unnatural thing to an omnipotent being. I know there’s mercy. There’s been a lot of God’s grace coming through right now through understanding from family or friends that I’m not really up for parties or going out to busy places. There have been some really lovely visits with good conversation and even laughs. There have been phone calls and messages that have come at apt times. There’s little Gamora who turned one at the beginning of December, and who’s such a gorgeous pup with lots of joy and mischief. There’s the memory of my mum and dad, that at present reduces me to tears – but one that I truly love. There’s the Christmas message of reconciliation between God and man, and hope in a time to come. I weep at this now – its truth moves me, and it is what I must hold on to.

I am not excited about 2024. Yet, I do trust in God to go before me, and for Him to use the challenge I face in moving ahead with this grief to draw me closer to Him. I’m sure I won’t live up to most people’s expectations, but I’m okay with that. Thankfully, the experience from grieving mum has helped me be a better advocate for myself as I grieve dad as well now. I’m going to reflect on what I’ve lost through the lens of my faith, and do what I need to in 2024 that’s helpful and beneficial for this.

It’s a rainy Thursday evening as I write this. Perhaps the weather is matching my mood. I have felt rather like Eeyore, walking around with my very own rain cloud hanging over my head. It’s not a great feeling. Eeyore, as we know, is not full of happiness and joy.

Today, 7 December, is my parents’ wedding anniversary. It has been awhile since we celebrated it. After all, my mum passed away in 2006. Yet, dad and I would acknowledge the date. With my dad, I usually made some kind of joke about how thankful he should be for the date coz it meant I was eventually born to him and my mum. He took it in good stride and usually gave me a big grin. The day was acknowledged. Today, I wasn’t able to do this. It was hard already for the last sixteen years to not wish my dad a happy anniversary, but today, to not even acknowledge the marriage of my parents was especially painful. It hit me so hard.

This morning, I took little Gamora out for a walk. I tried super hard to keep busy with work, and in between that, getting the laundry done. It’s been really hard-going because I’m feeling such high levels of pain, it’s not funny. I don’t know how I’m going to manage my emotions any better. I’m doing all the right things, according to the counsellor I’m seeing, the stuff I’m reading, and the podcasts I’m listening to. I guess I cannot expect the process to take away the experience of pain. This is all I’m left with.

Today, as I’ve been pondering about this feeling of extreme sadness I’m facing now, I wonder how I can ever expect to share my faith. Bereavement is an example of suffering- and as I’ve often said there are many, many different types of suffering. I guess it’s easy to dismiss God as uncaring. We often hear of people saying that one of the reasons why they don’t believe in God is because He allows suffering. I wonder now if I’m adding to the reason for the question.

There are many characters in the Bible that we’re often pointed to, who have become huge lesson-bearers to those of us who follow in the faith. You have the likes of Job, Joseph, the apostle Paul, just to name a few. Joseph, I sometimes admire and I sometimes find too hard to understand. In fact, there are times when what he says to his brothers in Genesis 50:20 (about how what they meant for evil against him, God meant it for good), both amazes and puzzles me. I mean, after all his suffering, to be able to see that God brought good out of it is just staggering. When I was younger and a lot less patient, I used to think him smug and annoying as he said that. It’s hard though, to apply what Joseph says in my own life. It is very unlikely that a nation will be saved through any of my suffering – like it was for Joseph, or even how mankind is saved through Jesus.

I think of Job- the loss of his entire family resonates deeply with me. Job’s friends don’t do a great job comforting him. I’m more blessed there. I receive comfort. Job’s suffering wasn’t a result of some kind of judgment against him. I have been pondering this, if my losing both parents is judgment against me. I don’t feel this to be the case at all. I’m still a sinful creature in need of sanctification and refining, but I cannot see that God is punishing me through the loss I’m experiencing. In a sermon by my favourite Tim Keller, who passed away in May this year, I remember him saying that when satan brought suffering into Job’s life, he did it to discredit Job before God, but that God used that suffering to lift Job up – the complete opposite to what satan attempts to do. I’m quite sure I’m not saying it as eloquently as Tim Keller, and I really should look for the sermon and listen to it again! But it does make me pause and wonder if this is why God has allowed me this suffering. I know that when my mum passed away and as I struggled with it, it was in my deepest moments of grief that I really felt grace and mercy. It was really when the pangs of pain hit me that I was drawn in closer to God. I know that those moments were amazing. Perhaps it is this that is happening. If I take that to be the case, then I cannot accuse God of not caring or being unmerciful towards me. I know that I have never been so sure of His existence and mercies as I have when I’ve encountered Him in my valleys. I can perhaps recognise that His grace is indeed sufficient for me and trust that He will work all things out for those who believe. I may not be able to acknowledge my parent’s’ wedding anniversary in the way I want to, but I can definitely acknowledge God’s work in me even through this grief. Perhaps this is what I can share.

Now that December is here, everything around us will go into a Christmas mode. There are some who may have already put up their decorations and may be well into shopping and whatever prep there is for the season. For others, this is probably the signal to start planning. Some others may still sit on their laurels and contribute to the later rush of things. What’s Christmas shopping and prep without a bit of stress? For some, it’s time to don their Grinch impersonations and turn a nose at Christmas. For yet some others, this is an incredibly painful and difficult season.

I’ve always loved Christmas. As a Christian, I’m grateful for the birth of the Christ child, which marks the hope given to mankind for reconciliation with God. The price of reconciliation is heavy and we see that over Good Friday and Easter. Perhaps it’s easier to fall in love with Christmas because it is the arrival of a baby. The story of the nativity, where a young couple gets turned away from every inn, even when the lady is heavily pregnant, tugs at heartstrings. The context of the pregnancy- the way she was found with child prior to marriage, total submission to the will of God, and the man standing by her in obedience to God’s will adds to the feeling of concern for the couple, and a desire for them to catch a break. The story is reproduced year after year – whether by believers or nonbelievers. Whatever twists and turns they may add to the scene, the stage is set and the story is moving. Saying this, I also love the fanfare at Christmas. The secular celebrations that make everything look so beautiful. The period where people come together and meet over food and drink. I love it. I’m guilty of planning for my Christmas parties very far ahead. There’s a place for these celebrations too, that steer clear from a messy barn where the Christ child is eventually born.

This year, though, I’m dreading Christmas. It feels too soon after my dad’s passing. It took us a long time to really get into a rhythm of celebrations after losing my mum. Suddenly there were two from what was already a small family of three. Now, it’s just me. My dad’s quiet and reserve meant he was happy with a quiet day, where we went to church and perhaps came back for a meal. I liked the fanfare and he totally went along with it for my sake. This year, everything has changed. I can’t handle the thought of getting some mince pies coz he’s not around now to share in the treat. We’d bring them out quite late in the evening, while we were chilling, and discuss some Christmas plans over this. I’ve no idea why we needed to talk so much about what time church started, what time would be best to leave home, etc. I feel like there’s a full stop to my way of celebrations.

Thankfully, how I feel right now doesn’t dissipate the real meaning of Christmas. Rather, it gives me a moment of gratitude because of the hope that I have in Christ, that my dad like my mum who went before, shared. It’s perhaps too soon just yet for me to say I feel like rejoicing as a result of that hope- though I am grateful for it. I am very grateful. I find myself in tears when I am reminded of the glorious resurrection that awaits believers and the reunion I’ll have with my mum and dad. I look forward to that. But now – I’m here, without them. This is hard to bear.

This is why this year, I’m dreading Christmas. I don’t feel like buying presents and I certainly don’t want to receive any. I can’t bear to think of carollers, games, parties, or outfits. I cannot imagine being away from home as we usually host family or friends. Equally, I cannot imagine being at home, without my dad. I know I spend some time at Christmas every year pining for my mum. Now my list of who I pine for has grown. I don’t even want to send Christmas greetings, and I certainly don’t think I’ll know what to do when I receive them. It’s going to be terrible because my home is shattered, even if I trust in Jesus.

I’m not the only one who’s facing loss. There’s all sorts of loss: loss of employment, loss of relationships for reasons such as bereavement, divorce, toxicity, etc., loss of health – whether it is long or short term or whether it even recoverable, financial loss, etc. I’m sure during seasons of celebration, these losses are highlighted and the sadness feels overwhelming. I’m convinced of the truth of Christmas- God came down to be with us and to save us. As I mourn the loss of Christmas at home, I know that I will one day rejoice in a home I cannot even begin to fathom. I’m not despairing, as much as I dread the Christmas season. Perhaps that is what the hope of the Christ child is – not to despair in the face of dread, for the reality of the world is such – there’s beauty in many aspects of life, but there’s also an exceedingly large, complex amount of grief. I’m not sure how else to go about these days as I hold the truths of life, forgiveness, and unwarranted grace alongside heartbreak, tears, and dread. I am very grateful that there’s not just the later to deal with – and for that, I guess I can look at the real reason for Christmas with hope for the future.

For some reason, I’ve been pondering on a passage from Joshua 5: 13-15. Joshua encounters Jesus (the Angel of the Lord) in impressive fashion- a far cry from the baby in the manger. This encounter happens as Joshua looks upon the city of Jericho as an old man, perhaps remembering how in his youth, he’d been sent in as a spy (Numbers 13). Jericho remained a fortified city, large, and intimidating. It was fear that set the rest of the spies against entering Jericho, their pathway into the promised land (Numbers 14). The sin of the Israelites then was to be so fearful that they wouldn’t proceed into Jericho – not even when God was with them. As a result, no one from that generation, save Joshua and Caleb, were allowed back in later. So as an old man with experience, Joshua now stands before Jericho once again. He meets Jesus (the Angel of the Lord- Joshua 5: 13-15). In typical human fashion, and in true Hollywood style, the question Joshua asks is ‘are you for us or against us?’ ‘Neither’ comes the reply. ‘I’m the commander of the army of the Lord and I am here.’ I can almost picture this entire scene in my head. It is gripping to say the least. The choice is now Joshua’s. How does he respond? He falls down in worship and says ‘command me.’ This speaks to me. I know the promised land is secure – my future inheritance, which is totally undeserved and awarded me by grace is secure. However, I must go through this life to get there. I no longer have my supports of my mum and dad. I can imagine how much Joshua would’ve loved to have Moses by his side again. I have experience too, through this encounter Joshua had with Jericho. Everything feels intimidating and scary. I feel like fleeing. However, because of Christmas, I have Jesus with me (Emmanuel). I have him not as a snuggly baby, but as the commander of the armies of the Lord. Whilst I feel a sense of dread over Christmas and what lies ahead, in my heart, I feel the only way for me is to say ‘command me.’

Papa, your leaving me has really brought a new age for me. I don’t have you or mummy here. It’s painful. Thank you both for teaching me about Jesus. I too will say ‘command me.’ Love you both.

7 November 2023 was exactly a year since I put Loki down. I’m sad about Loki, but when I woke up on that day (and every day since I lost my dad), the one thought that has dominated my mind is my dad. Loki matters, of course, but my dad is by far more significant. Every day, there’s an overwhelming lowness that envelopes me. I’m in need of solace.

There’s been a lot happening on the health front. Inflammation levels are going haywire coz of the stress from the grief I’m feeling, and it’s resulting in much higher levels of pain and fatigue. The physical setback bothers me, because it wasn’t an even playing ground to begin with. This has been difficult to take. I’m in need of a miracle.

As I reflect on how it’s been, the way my RA (rheumatoid arthritis) has left me floundering for a bit, I feel a pang of pain deep within. My usual comforts at home are no longer there. Neither mum nor dad are around anymore. I’ve been thankful for my aunts and cousins. They’ve come out with me to or to pick me from hospital in the middle of the storms that have been happening here. There’s been home cooked food, help with things I need to do at home, and visits to see me and Gamora. Some of my friends have popped by at different points too- and these have been great. Some have been in constant communication. I have some of the loveliest people around. I recognise that there are many blessings to count. Still there is a sadness that I feel. The blow that death has dealt me is harsh. As blessed as I am, I’m in need of comfort.

Life is so hard, when I think about it. Sure, we have some great things: family, friends, dogs, birthdays, anniversaries, late night phone calls/chats, holidays, beaches, etc. What an inexhaustible list of wonderful things we have to look forward to. However, not all we have to look forward to is wonderful. There’s death, illness, pain and suffering of immeasurable measure and for various reasons. These all happen on individual or large scales. It’s nuts. Yet, most of the time, unless the suffering impacts us directly, we’re able to go on with life and see its goodness. It’s almost unbelievable how life goes on in the middle of all the chaos. We’re in need of peace and calm.

Grief feels different for different people. We experience the world and all its beauties so differently. We have such intricately diverse existences. In diverse fashion, we grieve different losses of varying degrees. Sometimes the grief is simultaneous. It gets tricky when things overlap. Your mind finds it hard to distinguish one thing from another. We’re in need of heaps of grace.

How often have I referred to grace? I mean grace from God. The God of the Bible both in the harsh contexts of the Old Testament and in the more direct but still quite bizarre contexts of the New Testament is constantly known as the God of grace. It is so hard to swallow this when we look around us and see life decaying – whether by old age, illness, and a whole host of other variables. It’s hard to imagine the existence of grace when we’re crushed or in our low times. We’re in need of faith.

It can’t be just me (in my present low state), and I’m sure that so many others too, who feel the unbearable weight of our existence. I’m prone to reflecting on life in light of my faith. Am hoping that the later informs the former. Often the former impacts the later for me instead of the other way round. The blows life deals my faith are quite painful and often feel like a pummelling. How can I process this sadness? This is when I’m informed of the grace bestowed upon me and the world through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. More than once, He demonstrated that the darkness of our circumstances could not and would not overtake the light He brought into them. The light He brought seemed to have been diminished so cruelly when He was crucified. Such darkness enveloped the earth. For all who believed, it felt like fate dealt them a cruel, cruel hand. Thankfully, as believers know, the story didn’t end there. The light was raised up and restored. We need this hope.

The restoration of Jesus to His rightful throne is the light that fuels me in this time of darkness. I guess I don’t need to have the fear of missing out because of this season of grief. It’s okay if things aren’t okay for some time, though I pray with all my heart for the chance to feel lighter and happier again. The restoration of Jesus gives me hope for a similar restoration with all my loved ones. I’m especially looking forward to meeting my mum and dad again, though I cannot imagine it and the thought of it brings tears to my eyes. Tears of sadness for how much I’m missing them, and tears of hope for this present pain to end. It makes me think that perhaps as a result of this horrible sadness, there is a heightened sense of the grace that flows from God. I’m a recipient of grace.

My father’s passing leaves a gaping hole in my life. It brings up all other loss too – my mum and granny, especially, and the loss of some of my blessings like Loki and Patches, and health, even. Please don’t ask me how I am or comment on how well I’m coping. These are impossible questions for me to answer, and they make me what to throw up. Just know that there’s a battle going on within – between the brokenness and darknesses in my life with the light of salvation promised to me by Jesus Christ. I’m in need of grace. I’m a recipient of grace.

Today is exactly two months since my dad passed on. I’ve at points felt time zipping past as so many other things come flying in my direction. I’ve also felt time stand still- almost like I’m stuck in the 23rd of August 2023. Neither feeling suits. Neither feels right.

Things are not right. Not in the least. Not for me, anyway. Another significant part of me feels dead – and despite the way I’ve tried to thrust myself into getting back on the saddle by continuing with plans and really trying to be a part of things, I cannot stop the way I’m being dragged down so low. There have been some good things too: good news from friends about their situations. I’m wishing I could be as happy as I know I could for them, but I’m failing to hit that high. There have been some good things for me too. Maybe my usual reactions to these are by far muted. It cannot be helped.

A friend came by today. It was good to have her here. We’re both grieving – and maybe that is why her company really helps. Another friend messaged me today and she said some very real words. She said she wished she had the words to comfort me, but that the reality was she didn’t. I appreciated her honesty on this – no fluffing about. My cousins have been in communication too, as well as some other friends from near and far. I wish I could tell them how much their messages mean to me, at this time when my heart is breaking. I feel like I’m walking around with a cloud over my head, and these souls are like temporary respites from the storm. Yet – it’s not fair to keep telling them my sorrows. Life is hard even on a good day. They’ve got stuff to deal with too.

Everything has changed. Now that my dad’s gone, it feels like maybe there’s another wave of things that will happen. A lot of it are things that I don’t want to deal with. I thank God at how neatly my dad left his affairs. It’s one things less for me to deal with. Yet – there are many other things that I cannot control: work goes on, friends react in ways that are unimaginable, the speed of things happening all around me is crazy – I cannot cope. The list is endless. Saying that, if I’m honest, I’m finding it hard to stay still too. Perhaps it means looking at the situation I’m in.

I know that I’ve probably watched too many movies in the last few weeks. I want nothing complicated: just some good guys, bad guys and not a lot of words. I don’t want anything sad and I certainly am not finding too many things comical right now. I’m giving myself a pass at the Netflix binging right now because I need the reprieve. I want everything to just stop for awhile. But even when they do, it’s only for so long. I want things to stop for a long time.

Nothing will stop. Not in the way I need it to. That is the reality. The release I have is that my prayers need not be sanitised. It may have been something I struggled with in the past. Don’t think I’m struggling too much there now. It is such a blessing to have God to whom I can howl and cry out to. It’s almost as if time stops for me as I do this. That has been so helpful. I’ve not had to worry about what I say to Him. He will show me the way – there is no doubt there. It’s taken such a significant loss for me to get to this point of unfiltered prayers. Jesus can take it in a way that no one else can: there is no offence or imagined hurt, there is no pontification, there is nothing that makes me feel like I need to leave the space. It is where I need to be, ugly as it is. For this, I’m grateful. Perhaps it’s precisely because we as humans need to keep moving, that makes it impossible for us to really meet needs of those who grieve or go through dark times. I think I would struggle to support someone feeling this way. The sheer discomfort of having to remain in that space is hard. In this space of unfiltered prayer, I can stop. I can sob. I can voice fears and dread. I can say nothing when there’s just emotions from within coming out with no words attached. I’m not feeling better just yet, but perhaps that is not the immediate goal of this space of honest prayer. Perhaps it is doing what I need as I stop and take my tears to God in prayer.