About two seconds after I walked into the office she turned from her desk and said, “Now that you’re all here I want to ask your opinion about something.”  Given the three people about to be consulted, she should have been very afraid, but she continued without waiting for a reply.  I guess the fact that we all turned and faced her indicated we would be willing participants.  “You know I love Jesus . . .” Yes, we all knew she loved Jesus.  She hadn’t said it lightly; it was an honest reflection of the deep, personal faith that had sustained her over the last several months.  “. . . but I don’t want to go to church on Mother’s Day.”

There was a moment of silence as she waited expectantly, not because we didn’t know what to say but because we understood completely.  This was the first Mother’s Day she would be spending without her mother, a circumstance that should never have been, but was—all because of a tragic accident.

We assured her that Jesus would understand and offered alternatives as to how the morning might be spent because we knew the subject matter of all Mother’s Day sermons—mothers.    It’s a pretty obvious choice but it can be so gut-wrenching when the loss is still fresh.  I know.  From personal experience, I know how much it can hurt to face holidays and other occasions, especially for the first time, without someone who would normally be the focal point of the day—or at least a significant part of it.

My mother died on May 1, 2008 and just a few short days later, I found myself in Wal-Mart buying one Mother’s Day card instead of my usual two.  For thirty years, I had selected two, but no more.  The next year my father died on a Monday . . . the Monday of Thanksgiving week.  That holiday and the Christmas that seemed to come so quickly afterwards were times when I simply wanted to shut myself off from the rest of the world.  Not forever.  Just until the celebrations were over.

Now before anyone berates me for relating a personal conversation that reflected someone’s struggle with grief, please know that I asked permission first.  I asked because I never want anyone to be surprised by their inclusion here, and because I knew the circumstances were fresh enough that some would immediately know who asked the question.  And she readily agreed because, as she so aptly put it, people need to know.

So what is it that people need to know? To answer that question, I have to speak from my personal perspective.  There are no magic words, no pearls of wisdom that will change my perception of my loss. Only time can accomplish that feat, so please don’t try. Even if you have suffered the same type of loss, you can never know how I feel, because you saw it through the filter of your own life experiences—not mine. I don’t want you to pretend they never existed because they did and they were important to me and they always will be. But please don’t try to be the voice of reason when you speak of them. Don’t tell me they lived a good, long life or they’re no longer suffering or they’re in a better place. Don’t tell me they were too young or it shouldn’t have happened or it was too tragic. Guess what? I know every bit of that but it doesn’t make the loss any easier to bear. A major piece of my life is missing and my world will never be the same again.

When you’re in the presence of someone you know is grieving—especially if those wounds are still fresh—please, be considerate.  Don’t treat them any differently than you would on any other day, but be understanding if they choose not to celebrate something in the traditional fashion like, say, their first motherless Mother’s Day.  We all know someone who’s lost someone.  We may even be that someone.  So before you speak, before you approach that person this Mother’s Day—or any holiday—stop and think.  How would you want to be treated?  Then do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

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