If my mother had been a firework, she would have been a roman candle–bright, explosive, with sudden bursts of color and energy, followed by a quick dive into quiet, leaving only echoes of her energy behind.

She was artistic, prone to explosive rage, and, as my cousin used to say, “could beat a piano to death.”

Though we didn’t know what to call it growing up, she suffered from a significant mental illness that plagued and tortured both her and our family. As an adult, our conversations were mostly pleasant and about "safe" things. She had a childlike love for snow, Motown, and storytelling, and on her best days, she was exciting and energetic. But on other days, she was fierce and volatile.

When she died suddenly in 2008, she had been 67 years old for 26 days. After repeatedly calling her with no answer, I contacted the local police for a welfare check. Within a few minutes, I was informed that she had died (apparently) earlier that day. My siblings and I agreed that she died like she lived–sudden and "out of the blue." 

Several weeks after her death, I was talking to my cousin on my way home from work. I mentioned that “I was feeling afraid more often than I ever had” since losing her. My cousin, who knew her as well as anyone, replied, “Phil, your mom was volatile and unstable, and she loved Jesus with a passion I cannot describe. She was a prayer warrior beyond anything I have ever seen. As crazy as it might sound, a significant prayer covering for you left the earth when she passed.”

Tears welled in the corner of my eyes and began to fall down my cheeks. Those were the first of what seemed like millions of tears. In the days and weeks that followed, I experienced the One whom Isaiah declared would "bind up the brokenhearted" (Isaiah 61:1). Jesus calmly referenced this passage in Luke 4:18-19, and then, in verse 20, "gave the scroll back to the attendant and sat down." He sat down, just as He is seated at the right hand of the Father (Hebrews 1:3), having completed all that was necessary for eternal life with Him. My mother's life was a roman candle; my Savior is the Light of the World. He firmly and graciously spoke of His mission, and resolutely completed it.

My heart was broken over who she could have been and what we could have had. I cried tears of loneliness for the energetic artist and nurturing mother I lost, and tears of sadness and anger at how many more days we could have had. Yet, through every tear, the theme that emerged was the steadfast presence of the One who, in the greatest act of humility—with no Roman candle fanfare—bound up my broken heart and remained present in every detail of my story with her.

Contributed by: Phil Herndon
 

Scripture:
 

Psalm 56:8 (MSG)

You’ve kept track of my every toss and turn
    through the sleepless nights,
Each tear entered in your ledger,
    each ache written in your book.

Reflection:
 

1. Grief often stirs ideas of “what could have been.” Consider any areas in your life where such ideas linger. Invite God into those spaces of longing and disappointment—what does that invitation sound like for you?
    
2. Often, what we truly grieve extends beyond the people, places, or relationships we’ve lost; it encompasses the loss of ideas that shape our lives. This can include the loss of identity (as a child, spouse, parent, student, “good person,” leader, etc.) or the loss of shared experiences, milestones, and a planned future together. It may also encompass the loss of an ideal, such as the concept of a perfect family or a sense of safety and stability. Lastly, it can include the emotional and spiritual connections that were tied to those places or relationships. Which of these aspects resonate most deeply with your own experience?
    
3. Grief also represents a complex interplay of ideas and realities. Some may be in a season where it manifests as the loss of an idea, while for others, the pain of physical absence feels more pronounced. Do you currently identify more with one of these, or do you find yourself navigating a blend of both?