I prayed for a miracle. I believed for a miracle. I blogged about a miracle. I waited for the miracle.   But my mother died anyway.   How do you reconcile Scriptures that promise healing when the healing doesn’t come? One can argue that healing did come—through death. It’s true that Mom now lives without cancer in the tangible presence of Jesus the Healer, somewhere beyond the realm of my understanding.   But I don’t believe that every Bible verse about healing means “healing in heaven.”   There are two things that I know, and a third that I believe: God tells us to pray for...

Hours after my mother died, I found myself touching her things as I went around the house. Her jewelry box and its contents, her clothes folded on the dryer. So many things that she had touched, that had touched her. These were all I had left of her now. These things, and memories.   As the days passed, an almost panic-filled idea oppressed me: That Mom’s death had somehow erased her life and existence. Had she been real? Had all of our moments together been real? Was it possible that she could be so easily torn from my life if she had really been that closely woven into it?   Maybe my...

One of my favorite things about God is His redemptive nature. Over the years, He has given me very specific and unexpected gifts in answer to the many kinds of losses and disappointments I’ve experienced.   This week I experienced His redemption through a cancelled flight, a sold out hotel, an unexpected guest room—and a plate of waffles.   Last weekend I flew north to visit my family, right at the 40-day mark since my mother’s death. I arrived at my dad’s house knowing that these visits would never be the same again. There would be no flowers in the guest room to welcome me, and this time I...

Spring is trying to arrive. Well—I guess it’s already here. This year I totally forgot to notice the first day of spring. It has been one of the longest and coldest winters I can remember in a long time. Even in middle Tennessee, we had multiple snowfalls.   It was lightly falling that February day—the last 24 hours of my mother’s life—I left Nashville. At least six inches of snow was on the ground when I landed in Philadelphia. More fell in the days after my mom’s death. Then, there was rain. Then, more snow, covering the new grave.   This week I have been watching the daffodils open...

Oh let me remember Mom’s hugs—the rounded softness of her shoulders, her scent, the hum of her voice with our heads pressed together.   I wanted one of her hugs the night she lay dying.   The last one we exchanged was at the airport in December after Christmas. I think I remember it, but the memory might be blended with the airport hug in November after Thanksgiving. They were similar—affectionate, moving, heavy with unspoken emotion.   The last hug I gave her was during her final breaths, early in the morning. By then, my dad and sister had pushed her hospice bed flush against the bed...