My mom was in a bleak, dark place. We were in an uncharted territory of gloom.
The day after my parent’s 65th wedding anniversary, my dad, a relatively healthy and active man for his age, started his downward spiral. What had initially started as a single, treatable cancer diagnosis had morphed into three cancers. This put my parents through nine emergency room visits, radiation therapy, numerous hospital visits, weeks of rehabilitation stays, and finally ended with hospice care at home.
Days before, after this six-month battle, my dad passed. As quickly as I could, I was traveling to help my family. I was nervous about trying to assist my mother and my brother and his wife, who were all there when my dad died.
My mother’s champion, her companion, her partner was gone. My mom was devastated and exhausted.
On my plane ride, I watched the sun slowly sink into the clouds. It felt symbolic of my dad’s life—so beautiful—and I didn’t want to lose the light it gave. As the sunset was fading, I was feeling the darkness settling in my heart. I offered many prayers for heavenly help for myself and for my sad family.
Soon after I arrived at my parents’ house, I failed to intercept a phone call from my mom’s cousin. This fellow widow was extremely negative and heaved my mom’s vulnerable feelings into a place of utter hopelessness.
A winner of dramatic awards, my mom is a master thespian. However, we were witnessing a whole new level of drama and doom. After that dour phone call, my mom said her life now had no purpose—her life was over. My mom was as despondent as I had ever seen anybody. We tried, unsuccessfully, to tell her that we needed her, her grandkids needed her, and her ward needed her.
My brother and I were worried. How were we going to get through these coming days that were certain to be full of heavy challenges? How would I ever be able to manage my own grieving heart and still have the strength to prop up my mom?
Little did we know that we were in God’s gentle hands.
Later that same day, my mom’s bishop dropped by the house. He stopped by to tell my mom that he was cutting his Hawaii vacation short. He was flying back from Hawaii days early to be back in time to conduct my dad’s funeral.
Wow.
That huge act of sacrifice and kindness softened all of our tender hearts.
After trying to express our thanks, we then asked this wonderful bishop how he became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He told us he joined the Church as a 19-year-old. After high school, this future bishop moved from his mother’s home in Reno to live with his dad in California. There he took the missionary lessons. Divorced, his mom was a former, frustrated member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and a Reno blackjack dealer.
Soon after he was baptized, he attended a sacrament meeting during which the speaker was giving a post-mission, homecoming talk. After the meeting, the future bishop went to greet the recently returned missionary. The former Elder put his arm around this future bishop and said, “Now it is your turn—you need to go on a mission.” The bishop told us, “I wish that Elder knew the impact he had on my life. That was all it took, I knew I needed to serve a mission. That missionary was God’s messenger for me.” The future bishop served a mission; however, his mother was not happy with this choice.
Then my mom changed the subject. She told the bishop how much she missed her calling teaching Relief Society. She hadn’t taught for months, but she said that the sisters in the ward raved about her teaching.
Next, the bishop made the connection that changed all of us. He told my mom, “You were the messenger for my mother!”
The bishop said that many months before while his mother was visiting him, his wife had talked his mother into coming to church with his family. Afterwards, his blackjack dealing mother said that she had actually felt something in a Relief Society lesson. His mother said that she was touched by what the teacher had taught that day. The teacher on that day was my mom.
The Bishop said to my mourning mother, “You were the instrument. You were God’s messenger for my mother, just like that missionary was God’s messenger for me.”
The tone had changed. The Spirit was present. The doom was replaced with optimism and confidence.
My brother said to my mom, “You can still be God’s messenger. You talked about how the women loved your lessons. You are loved and respected in your ward. You can be a leader in your family and in your ward.”
My mom now had a vision and a purpose. Her strength was renewed. Her countenance was changed. That visit was a miracle, and that bishop was God’s ambassador for us.
This self-sacrificing bishop was the messenger to my family; God was mindful of us. This miracle of a message transformed the feeling of hopelessness into a feeling of empowerment. I read this scripture in Pslams, and it reminded me of our miracle: “Praise ye the Lord. … He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names. … His understanding is infinite” (Psalm 147: 1, 3–5)
Your thoughts?
How have you dealt with grief in your life? How have you given comfort/been comforted?