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Today, my mother would’ve turned 84, had she been alive. Try as I might, I cannot imagine what it would’ve been like if she’d still been around. She was dealing with a progressive illness, and eighteen years ago when she died because of it, her body had already been ravaged quite severely. I have the same illness but not to the same degree, and even so, I can see progression in the space of a year, two, or five. What would eighteen years have been like for her with her illness, I cannot imagine. I dare not.

I spent the day clearing out old photo albums. I took some digital shots of photos, where possible. But for a lot, it was just impossible. Some photos were so old and faded. I’m in the process of destroying those, but I’ve already chucked four huge albums. I don’t know how many more I have to clear out- there’s quite a few.

It was nostalgia that I felt as I looked through some of the photos. Seeing my parents in shots of times gone past was bittersweet. I found myself fascinated by the both of their smiles. I remember things shared from photographs before my time, or from when I was very young. I remember some photos – exactly how it was at the time they were taken, even. It feels so unreal that my mother hasn’t been around for the last eighteen years, and that my dad passed away almost ten months ago. It is so hard to imagine the chunk of time that has gone by. It hurts to know I cannot turn back the clock at any point. All I have is to look forward to the future.

This June is going to be a tough one. I’ve been in tears for a lot of the day, though there have been some good chats in between. My dad’s birthday is coming up later this month. I was trying to figure out why I felt so restless. I think I know why. Initially, the restlessness was because there was no birthday to celebrate for mum. Now, this has extended to papa. It’s like a cancellation of something that is a part of my bones. It doesn’t feel right at all. I’m glad for all the times I got to celebrate them during their birthdays. I am sad, so sad, that I can’t do this anymore. This is an example of the new normal. It isn’t something I can replace or change. I remember my parents on their birthdays – it is all I can do.

There is no going back in time. No Avengers-styled time machine or Back to the Future chapters to live out. When I think about those movies, all I can say is that travelling back in time is exhausting. It comes across that way. It isn’t what we’re meant to do. Not even Captain America’s rousing speeches will make me change my mind there. I’m thankful for what has happened. I’m thankful for the parents I have. These days I give thanks to God for the blessing He bestowed me in the both of them. There are a lot of memories imprinted in my heart that are constantly being triggered by different things. As I embrace these memories and look upon what has happened, I am able to say that I feel grateful. Amidst the sadness I feel, I recognise a feeling of gratefulness to God for my parents and for what I have to look forward to.

Whilst looking back may bring me tears of pain mingled with joy, looking forward brings me a sense of gratitude and awe. I believe my future, and that of my parents, was secured by Jesus on the cross. It’s a big sense of relief because I know that He is faithful and true. It makes no sense unless you’re convicted of this truth. I am convicted. Both my mum and dad are secure with Him, as am I.

I recently went on a retreat with my colleagues, and one of the sessions involved us tracing God’s hand in our work lives as we looked back on our previous jobs to our present roles. I thought this was a good exercise and it must have been in my subconscious as I looked at the old photographs today. I could see how the Lord has been gracious to the three of us, especially. I remembered so many things in these photos- words said, things done, blessings even when things felt terrible. It’s making me realise that I do not need to travel back in time. I have a God who is in control of all things, and who is trustworthy. So I want to surrender these feelings and emotions from this season of grief, as well as the season itself, to Him.

Papa and mummy- I miss you so much because I cannot celebrate your birthdays. It’s a big part of my life that is missing. But I will trust in God as you taught me to. We will meet again. Here’s to looking forward in faith. Love you!

There’s a pain in my heart that heightens,

As people celebrate Mother’s Day

It’s a stark reminder that you aren’t here.

You’ve not been around for a long time.

Mum, it’s been eighteen years,

But my heart will always feel sorrow,

When I recall it’s you I’ve lost.

The pain in my heart is sharper this year,

Papa’s also not here,

His absence which is so very recent,

Makes yours feel oh so near.

I feel a dark cloud following me,

I miss the both of you so very much,

There are still many tears for me to cry.

As there’s a celebration of mothers,

I want to praise God for you,

I thank Him for your mind, mum,

Praise Him for the wisdom He granted you.

In all I do and go through,

Your words are loud and clear.

For lessons on Jesus, I thank you.

I wonder how you and papa are,

in a world of no more pain and tears?

Do you miss me as I miss you?

Oh mum, I’m in such pain! I have fears!

Thank You, Jesus, for my mum and dad,

You gave me so much, Lord,

I am so grateful for what I had.

Happy Mother’s Day, mummy. I miss you and papa so much.

Written by: Anita Stephen (as I remember my mum and dad on my first Mother’s Day without either of them)

Early yesterday morning, I managed to take Gamora to her favourite park. It’s not very close to home. Without traffic, it takes us 25-30 minutes, and even though Gamora complains (especially when the car stops – even at a traffic light!), she really loves the park and it’s a worthwhile trip.

I was feeling quite low that morning. It’s been a busy period at work, and I had an online event some days ago. Usually, when things get hectic at work, my dad’s check-ins are really helpful. They’re super basic too- whether I’ve eaten, taken a moment to stand and stretch, etc. Very calm, quiet questions that make me remember to breathe. This time round, it was very obvious to me that this was absent. It’d be 3:00pm and I’d feel a sudden pang of hunger, only to realise I’d not had lunch. It’s hitting me – papa’s gone. It’s real. He’s not here anymore.

Additionally, there’s been a lot going on at work and some things have gone really well. I cannot say the number of times that I started to say something to my dad to let him know. After mummy passed, I really missed her in such conversations. I’d have conversations with papa and in a quiet moment try to remember mummy and what she’d have said. That hurt has never really left- it’s a regular visitor, but now it feels like the significance of the grief visitor has intensified so much more because I don’t have papa.

It’s hard to say what I want at this time. The work event has gone well- and I feel a sense of wonder and joy. Wonder because I know it’s God who’s worked things out. Joy because I’ve been a part of it. He let me be. So – there’s no discontent there. I’ve also started feeling better after such a horrible struggle with an RA flare that started after papa’s passing. Physically, I’ve been able to go for lovely walks with Gamora and do things around the house. I’ve also been able to go back to church, which is good- to engage with my community in person. I even attended an in-person meet for my grief support group because I was well enough to do so. Yet the feeling is that something big is missing. It is real. My dad’s not here anymore.

Papa’s absence is hard to take on its own. Papa’s departure makes mummy’s passing real all over again. So it’s not just one fresh wound but the opening up of an old wound that I’ve to contend with. Oh papa, oh mummy. I’m this way because it’s all feeling real. You’re not here anymore.

Anyone who knows me, knows I talk so much about God. I keep batting on about Him. Where does He fit in all this? I think that morning, when I was in the park with Gamora, I had a glimpse of how He fits in.

I’m not sure if the flowers I saw are water lilies or lotuses, but there were a few delicate pink ones standing on their own amidst a lot of dying ones. They held a sense of elegance amidst the obvious fragility of their lives. There was beautiful white one all on its lonesome, yet somehow it felt like a flourishing loner. And the colours in the park today. We were early, but because of how hot it’s been and thanks to the storm we had last night, the sky was a brilliant blue with gentle traces of white clouds. Oddly enough, what struck me then was a rather weather beaten tree. It didn’t look like it had lots of green leaves for its trunk and branches seemed to have overtaken it somehow. Felt so much like the trials of life beating down on it, but it stood strong. Yet, there a strange but pretty growth in it that almost added beauty to a rather dull trunk of another tree, which added unexpected colour to it. It was as I was surrounded by nature that I understood a little the life that He’s given me. Fragile, yet elegant. Thriving, yet lonesome. Weather-beaten, yet strong. And in the midst of darkness, some splashes of colour. It struck me that there is loveliness and good even when it’s dark and painful.

Recently, one of the pastors from my church joined some of colleagues and me for a devotion session we had. He referred us to Psalm 34, which is a Psalm of my favourite king David. It’s a poignant Psalm and it was written just after the time when David pretended to be a madman to elude enemies. I’ve been pondering on Psalm 34 which is a powerhouse Psalm to unpack. In my present state of mind, it strikes me that after bearing the humiliation of feigning madness to escape an enemy, and while he is in hiding, David manages a boast in the Lord (verse 1). The boast doesn’t come at a time when David’s leading a good life as king in his palace. It comes when he’s at a low and is living in the shadows of caves. There is a call at this point of lowness to magnify and exalt the Lord (verse 2). That’s staggering. The ability to look upon God when he’s in a terrible low period is beyond belief. It is precisely because he’s doing this and finding a sense of peace and perhaps, even beauty, that he’s able to make another staggering claim in verse 8: ‘Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good.’ There is loveliness even when it is dark and painful. The verse that clenches the deal for me is verse 18, where David reminds us that ‘The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.’ This speaks to me. It is when David is low and broken, when his comforts aren’t with him that he takes refuge in the Lord. It is when he is crushed and brokenhearted that he’s able to taste the Lord – and the LORD is good! It speaks to me of the circumstances that I find most dreadful now – a life without my parents, when I’ve just suffered a rather recent loss of my dad, and when I’m feeling crushed and brokenhearted. I don’t think David’s circumstances changed very quickly after that – but he did find the LORD good! Some of the verses of Psalm 34 are prophetic – and we see them coming to be in Jesus. The last verse of the Psalm tells us that ‘The LORD redeems the life of his servants; none of those who take refuge in him will be condemned.’ That is the promise sealed by the death and resurrection of Jesus. It is the promise of life with him- it’s not speaking of the here and now but of a future that is guaranteed to all who put their trust (take refuge) in Him.

What now? I guess I’ll keep going through this life according to the circumstances that God has granted me. I must count my blessings. I feel that God has sent me so many amazing people. Whilst it’s true that some friends just haven’t been there very much, there have been so many others. This has been a blessing- as I navigate the caves that I’m in at the moment. I have to say that there are many moments when I am in awe of God and His goodness. It feels like there has been a steady supply of grace to meet my needs. I am grateful. I must also look to the future. Life as we know it is full of decay. The walk in the park in the park reminded me of that. Psalm 34 reminds me of the grace and the promise that I have in Christ. Indeed, there is loveliness and beauty even in this darkness.

To my father – I wish, I wish, I wish you were here. I miss your presence so much.

To my mother – I wish, I wish, I wish all this time stopped the desire to be with you and chat as we used to. It hasn’t.

Thank you both for bringing me up in this faith. I thank Jesus for you.

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.