But You Still Have Me

        Years before Momma became sick with her fatal illness, she and I were talking about her childhood.  Momma was the oldest of five children and her parents buried three of those children as infants; only Momma and her youngest sister lived to adulthood.

       Momma told me that she could remember when the first one, her baby brother, died and how devastated her parents were, how her mother screamed and cried over the death of that baby.  Momma, who was only four at the time of her brother's death, told me that she herself was so scared and how it hurt her to see her mother cry.  She told me that she went to her mother and told her, "You still have me." 

       Momma then told me that she didn't understand at the time that her mother knew she still had her, but that didn't ease the hurt of burying the baby.

       I didn't think much more about that story until my own brother died suddenly of a blood clot to the lungs when he was only 53.  His death affected Momma differently than the deaths of any of the other loved ones that she had had to bury.  And seeing her grieve and cry tore me apart and made me feel so helpless.  In my own clumsy attempt to get her focus off of her dead son, I said to her as lovingly as I could, "I know you are hurting, Momma, but you still have me, Chuck, and Doug." 

       The empty look she gave me at that moment told me that it didn't make any difference if she still a dozen children: she was burying her child, she was burying a part of her own heart and being.  

       I have experience the death of many people that I love: my Daddy, whom I adored, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, my brother.  But I still had Momma and somehow that always gave me a connection to those deceased loved ones.  And having the privilege of caring for Momma in our home matured the relationship she and I had.  So it wasn't until I was standing beside Momma's lifeless body, then - only then - did I understand the depths of the hurt and grief Grandma and Momma had experienced.  It was then that my own dear husband and my family kept trying to remind me that I still had them, I still had people that loved me.  But it didn't help, it didn't matter: my Mother - the one person who had always been in my life, the one person that I always knew loved me unconditionally and would never, never turn me away - that person was dead and I was sitting in the ashes of the life I had always known and there was nothing that I could see but ruin.  

       And those kind words: "But you still have me" meant nothing to me at that moment, just as they meant nothing to Grandma when Momma said them, and nothing to Momma when I said them.  

       Having now experienced this from both sides, I think the Lord Jesus has taught me two things:

              First, if you are the one sitting in the ashes and someone who loves you tells you that you still have them, please know that it is not meant to diminish the relationship you had with the deceased loved one.  Nor is it meant to tell you to not grieve.  Understand that the person saying it is concerned about your well-being and needing you to know that you still have something to live for.

              Second, if you are the person sitting next to the one grieving, know that when you say that, they are too emotionally raw to grasp the full import of your words.  They are hurting and may not understand that you love them and your concern for them is real.  If they say nothing or get angry and lash out, don't take it as an attack on you.  Just accept that they are hurting beyond anything they know how to handle.  They need to hear you say it, but it may not penetrate the screaming of the pain until later.  So go ahead and tell them as lovingly and gently as you can, "I know you're hurting, but you still have me."  And then just as lovingly remind them, "... And I still need you."

       Shared in love, 

                                   Cris

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