My beautiful grandmother (maternal) passed in 2014 at the age of 100. My mother was very close to her, so I was very observant in her grieving process. Although I never saw my mother cry, she would often say "Kiya, I was talking to Mother this morning." I didn't really know how to respond, so I'd just say, "Oh ok." 

It wasn't until Mom died that I understood the gravity of talking to a deceased parent. It's not something that I regularly find comfort in, but it is something that I find comfort in knowing that I can do. It sounds sooooo weird, but ask anyone who has experienced loss. It is something about telling that deceased love one that you graduated, got a good grade or even got a new job that makes it feel "official."

As a child, my mother would take my siblings and I to our grandmother's house before church on Mother's Day. We would go not to stay, but to cut roses from her rose bushes. The red roses were for my siblings and I, but my grandmother would cut a white rose. Mom explained the purpose behind this tradition and it honestly didn't mean much to me until this Mother's Day when I was given a white rose.

Before any holiday I am faced with the decision of exactly how to spend the occasion. Do I go out of town? Do I keep my normal routine? This year, I did something a little different. I returned to Hillsborough where I preached in the very place Mom and I preached together a few Mother's Days' ago. On that particular Mother's Day, we did a sermonette- Mommy did the first 15 minutes and then I closed.

Returning to this particular church to preach was a first since Mom and Dad passed. As I sat in the pulpit, I noticed the empty space where Mom would have sat. I glanced at the Deacon's corner where Dad used to be. As the choir stood  to give the pre-sermonic song, I noticed something even more familiar than the empty seats. The pianist started playing the song "Going Up Yonder." Mind you, that's the same song that was sung as my mother's body pushed from the alter to the cemetery.  Everything within me wanted to crumble; I wanted to lose it; I wanted to ball up in the fetal position. Yet, none of that happened. My worst fears did not manifest. Instead, I wiped my tears and took the song as a beautiful reminder of my parents' presence with me on that Mother's Day.

It goes without saying that celebrations without my parents are "weird." Thus, graduation was no different. If anything, it was one of the harder milestones to celebrate. You see, unlike other celebrations I've experienced since their deaths', seminary was something that my parents started off with me. They were both so proud of me for attending Emory and pursuing full time ministry.

Hours after learning of Mom's fatal diagnosis, I decided to take a semester off. However, Mom wasn't having it. "Kiya, I won't be here." I thought she meant "here" as in the state of sickness; I thought she was professing her faith that she would be healed and would not need me to care for her. Hours later I learned that "here" was in reference to being physically present on earth.

Yet, in the weeks leading up to my graduation I found myself "here" and wanting nothing more than my parents to be "here" with me.  I didn't send out any invitations nor did I plan a huge celebration.  My amazing husband was so excited for me and my closest friends made their way to Atlanta without my nudging. It was like everyone just kind of fell into place without my orchestration. Even my graduation photos were taken very last minute, as we happened to have a photo shoot planned for something else and George brought my cap and gown.

After graduation, I literally went back to our Airbnb and slept. There was no festive dinner or Atlanta shopping. I was so grateful for the degree, but going through the motions of graduation exhausted all of my energy and took everything I had. I wasn't sad; I wasn't upset. I just wanted to sleep.

Earlier this week I graduated from Emory University with my Master of Divinity degree. While this was certainly a huge milestone in my life, there was a numbing aspect that I couldn't get around. You see, in 2014 my mother prophesied to me that I was going to move to Atlanta. I gave her one of my "looks" (in the most respectful way, of course lol) and said "Mommy, I am not going to Atlanta." Long story short, by August 2015 I'd moved to Atlanta and enrolled in seminary at Emory.

Thus graduating from Emory marked the fulfillment of the prophesy. And for just one moment, I lost it; I felt completely lost. Throughout my life God spoke to Mom and she would convey God's messages to me. Yes, I heard from Him on my own, but there was something about the reassurance from Mom that solidified my understanding. But now that the prophesy was fulfilled, how would I know what to do next? All I wanted was for Mom to tell me what was next.

There are days, even months, when I don’t cry about my parents. They are on my mind daily, but not necessarily in sad ways. Their presence is felt in the crease of my smile when I’ve laughed really hard and in the deep breath that accompanies a long day. When I need an encouraging word, I vividly remember words from Mom and when I need a chuckle I think of  Dad saying something in his mountain twang.
 
It is because of the length of time that I go without outwardly mourning, that I am so thrown off when emotions surface. Case and point, writing out my wedding program.  I literally sat for hours with warm tears sitting in my eyes as I contemplated what to put in the area of “Parents of the Bride.” I know it’s not proper etiquette to write the name of a deceased parent on that part of the program, yet I hold in tension the huge role they've played in my big day.

For every bridal dress fitting, I imagine Mom marveling over the beauty of the dress;  I think about the huge smile that would have been on Dad’s face at the “First Look” photos. Every day I long for  "Good Morning" calls I would have gotten from Mommy reminding me of the countdown; and I think of how annoyed I would have been at Dad for constantly reminding me of how much he was going to miss me, even though I was living closer to him than I had in years (lol). 

In all honesty, my parents have been the depth of my thoughts and the very present peace in my matriculation of this entire process. Yet, etiquette tells me to omit their names or put them in an "In Memory" section; society tells me to do what I want. But in all actuality, all I want is for my mommy to tell me exactly what to do; I want her to fill in the blank and tell me what to write in the section under "Bridal Party" where I'm supposed to list the "Parents of the Bride."

You see I go days, even months, without crying over my parents. But today is just one of those days that I don’t want them "In Memory"- I want them right here with me in the present.

One of the most frequent questions I get from people outside of my immediate circle is, “How do you get through loss?” My answer really varies from person to person, but a recent tragedy led me to put my response in writing. So here it is, an open letter to that person navigating the loss of a loved one.
 
To: The person experiencing loss
From: A person experiencing loss
 
You are alive. Despite the feeling of being numb, dead, disconnected and out of control, you are alive. Every moment you are breathing is a moment that you are surviving. This means that you are already one step further than you thought you'd be. God is your complete life-support, for you can’t do this season on your own. Yes, you are out of control. Yes, it feels unfair. Yes, God is still good and faithful, but it is normal to wonder where He is at a time like now; it is normal to wonder how or why and to explore your unanswered questions.
 
The phone calls and messages you are getting will eventually die down. For now, it is ok not to respond. It is ok to find grave annoyance at what is meant to be the helpful “God has it under control” and “I am praying for you.” People mean well and while the messages seem redundant and empty right now, you will eventually look back and realize that the chorus of prayers is what kept you. Meanwhile, it is ok not to not to feel ok. It is ok to lack an understanding of God’s purpose in this experience. It’s ok to feel overwhelmed by the tasks to be done. It is ok. For now, give yourself the grace to grieve. Though they feel endless, your tears will stop. And yes, you will smile and laugh again. And after the laughter you will cry again...really hard. But you will re-discover joy and peace.  You will feel guilty the first time you actually feel “ok.” You will feel awkward at the unexpected feeling of liberation that comes with death, especially if you were the primary caretaker of your loved one. There will come a time when the memories scrolling through your mind slow down; when memories of your loved one are met with an unexpected laugh or a soft smile; a time when you let go- not of the person, but of this “feeling” that is so daunting.
 
Most importantly, though it may not seem like it in this experience, you will learn so many new and unexpected dimensions of God’s love and provision for you. You’ve met the God who took away, perhaps unexpectedly. Now, prepare to meet the God of restoration. Prepare to embark on unmarked territory to find your new normal. For now, your normal may be filled with tears, hopelessness, insecurity, fear, regret, indifference or even ambiguity. But soon, those feelings will be replaced with God's peace, God's blessed assurance and the re-assurance that you are ok. You will relinquish regret.  Everything really is going to be ok.

Yours in Christ,

​Pastor Kiya

This morning I sat in church as the names were read of those who recently transitioned. As I sat listening to the chorus of names, my heart bled for the families left to experience what I call the “nightmare.” I wish I could find another word more peaceful and angelic, but honestly the days lingering between a loved one’s death and their actual funeral is like living through a nightmare from which you cannot wake up. Every breath feels like your last and every thought is encompassed with a lack of control.

I remember dreading every moment I was awake following mom’s death. There was this understanding that I had to survive, but this relentless ambiguity in how I would. Waking up was painful; living was painful. It seemed like everything I did was a heavy reminder of the burdensome grief that was suffocating me. As much as I dreaded her death, I dreaded her funeral a million times more. Endless cards, calls, texts and messages came in promising prayers of comfort and relief, but even those became liken to a chorus of numb melancholy.
​
It’s hard to say the exact moment in which this nightmare ends, for there are days even now that the nightmare resurfaces; days when I just want to sleep instead of be awake; days when I burst into unexpected tears; days when the burden of losing my parents still feels unbearable; days when I can literally hear Mom taking her final breath; days when I am living in a nightmare. Yet, despite those days of emotional claustrophobia, I always wake up. And as time passes, the days do not linger as long; the tears are more quickly wiped away, and I am reminded that my reality is better than any dream.

Today, while sitting in a home-going service, it hit me that I’ve been to three funerals in the past four days. It is the plight of a pastor, yet still a sobering thought to think that three times in four days I’ve seen the stream of painful tears run down the faces of the bereaved; three times I’ve seen families take the final look at their loved one as the casket slowly closed; three times I’ve heard preachers give words of comfort to fill in the gaps of uncertainty and grief. I was only on the program at one of the services, yet in four days I’ve attended three funerals.
 
Honestly, I’m not a fan of funerals, but I attend them for the simple fact that there is power in showing up. I learned this power at the funerals of my parents’ as dozens and dozens of people showed up in respect, love and solidarity. Of course, many of the people were dear friends and loved ones, but several faces were only vaguely familiar.
 
As I sat gazing at my mother’s lifeless body, I recall a shadow that caught my attention. As I broke the gaze to satisfy my curiosity, my eyes were greeted by a group of friendly faces from my church. This would have been expected, only the faces I saw were not totally familiar. Instead, they were people who I had no idea would even show up. Leaders of my church and community who I didn’t even know knew my name; classmates I hadn’t seen in 10+ years; friends from out of state. People near and far showed up.
 
While my parents’ funerals are a blur and I cannot tell you what scripture was read and I do not remember the sermon titles, I do remember who showed up. To this very day, I thank God for each and every person who showed up.
 

www.Cheers2Shears.com

​My mother and I were dreamers of life, love and ministry. We’d sit for hours just dreaming about things to come and expressing excitement about every little detail of my future. One of our favorite dreams to share was what my future husband would be like. We’d laugh and giggle about how strong he’d have to be to deal with my “independence,” the sense of humor he’d have to handle my sarcasm and the love for God he’d have to fully support me in ministry. Of course, we’d smile chatting about the tears Dad would have in his eyes the day he had to walk me down that long aisle. Amidst our conversations, Mom would always remind me how she and Dad had been praying for my future spouse since I was a little girl. She never promised to know who “he” was, but she was confident in a God who heard their prayers.
 
When God sent my now fiancé, I was in awe. Beyond his witty humor, beautiful heart and love for God, there was something “different” about him. As I’ve prayed for God to reveal that “difference” to me, I’ve come to the beautiful realization that he is the manifestation of my parents’ prayers. My parents not only left me with cherished memories, but through their prayers they left me with a fiancé who  cherishes me.

I remember texting my best friend, Rebecca, as I wrote your obituary. The text read something like, “Sis, I can’t do this.” At that moment, I just knew my life was over. The idea of even thinking past the moment was exhausting. Yet, here I am 407 days later full of joy and peace.

It’s been 407 since I last saw your face; 407 days since we prayed together; since you held my hand, made a joke and smiled so gently. There was a time, 407 days ago, that I was sure my world was completely over. Yet here I am, 407 days later, still as sure as ever of God’s sovereignty and amazing grace; sure of God’s restorative power.
 
People have always asked how/why I am so happy. I typically just smile and revert the convo. But in recent months, I’ve found the answer. You see, now that I know what it’s like to lose my joy, I can confidently proclaim that joy is a gift from God. The fact that I smile so often and bubble over with authentic joy on most days is not a coincidence, it is a gift from God.
 
Since you and Dad died, I’ve held my joy as a gift and offered it to those I’ve encountered. The idea that I serve a God who doesn’t only give me joy, but refreshes my joy morning after morning blows my mind.
 
Since you and Dad died, I met the God who gives, the God who takes away and the God who restores. Yet, I’ve also met the God of joy; the God of a joy that bubbles over; the God of a contagious joy that I just can’t keep to myself.
 
So on today, this 407th day, I am reminded of the joy that you left me and the joy that God continues to give. Lamentations 3:22-23.

As the hot Atlanta summer beats on my sun kissed skin, I am left pondering the process and progress of the last 11 months. My daily thoughts of you leave a sweet dew on my mind that delights even my most challenging days. For my joy comes not in the loss of you, but in the faithfulness of God. Mommy, after you died, I didn’t think I could make it a single day. Daddy, I felt my world shutting down when you died. Your deaths challenged, strained, pushed and motivated me. Yet, despite the arduous season of grief and turmoil, I am here. I am still standing, more grounded in my faith than ever; more excited than ever to share the Gospel of a God who gives, takes away and restores.
 
For 28 years, I knew the God who gave, thus abruptly meeting the God who “takes away" was an unwelcomed (and at times an unbearable) feat. Yet, through it all, God never failed me. He never left me alone. My understanding of your death has been informed by my love for a God who gave, took away and is restoring; my understanding of your death has informed my entire theology.
 
Anyone can worship a God who gives; a God who so quickly answers prayers. Yet, there is a deeper relationship that is cultivated when one finds holy hands amidst Hellish seasons, worship despite worry and praying lips in loneliness. In the past 11 months, I’ve found that lily in the valley that we used to sing about; I’ve found that love truly lifts me; and I know for a fact that there is power in the blood of Jesus.
 
You spent your lives bringing me to Jesus, yet it was in your death that I truly met Him for myself. Through your life, my life is better. Through your death, my life has been transformed. Thank you.
 
Love you today and always,

Kiya

I’ve spent the week preparing for today. I didn’t dread today nor did I make it any bigger of a deal than it is, but today is Dad’s 66th birthday. In lieu of the day, I could not help but think back on the 29 birthdays we shared, the fondest memories of which came just last year.
 
You see, this time last year I was pastoring on the island of Inagua in the Bahamas. As a result, I could not be with Dad in person and instead had to settle for an over-the-phone type celebration. Knowing that Dad always went to sleep early, I called a bit earlier than Mom and my “talk time” to make sure he was awake. “Hey Baby, Baby!” he answered as Mom passed him the phone. “Hey Daddy- Happy Birthday! I hate that I can’t be there to celebrate with you.” With a grin I could hear through the phone he replied, “Ohh I know what you doin’. You are over there preachin’, teachin’, talkin' to God, and helpin' people and that makes me feel soooooo good.” I chuckled with an affirmative, “Yes Daddy, that’s exactly what I’m doin’.”
 
I still smile as I think of that interaction with Dad. Though I don’t write about him as often as Mom, Dad was a huge supporter of me in ministry. He was literally at every preaching engagement that was within driving distance (He’d tag along with Mom) and on those engagements that were too far or too late or too whatever for him to attend, I’d always get a call or word of encouragement, “Kiya, did the people like your preachin’? I know they did!" On November 6, Dad was feeling ill, yet was determined to attend my preaching engagement. I spoke with him the evening before, "Dad, I know you don't feel good. I'll be alright" To which he responded, "What time you gonna pick me up?" Little did I know that November 6th, 2016 would be the last sermon Dad heard prior to his death and the last time I'd have a parent in the audience to hear me preach. 
 
Today I write this post for Dad. I write this post because through it all, I am still “preachin’, teachin’, talkin' to God, and helpin' people” and I know that it still makes him "feel good." Happy Birthday, Daddy.

I am learning that one of the important keys to healing is moving beyond feelings. Yes, one has to embrace the varied emotions of fear, anger, disappointment, hurt, loss rejection, etc. but at some point, one has to  stop waiting on feelings to function.
 
Just think, there are days you don't feel like going to work, but you go; days you don't feel like adulting, but you do; days you don't feel like worshipping at church, but you still raise holy hands (*can I get an "Amen"*); days you don't feel like going to class, but you show up; days you feel like completely going OFF, but you hold your peace; days you feel like giving  up, but you keep pressing forward. If we were to rely solely on our feelings, what would get accomplished? 
 
You see, this life isn't 100% about what we feel. Much of the time, it’s about using faith to press through feelings that are debilitating and/or destructive. For me, on those days when my feelings seem stronger than my faith, I am reminded that though I feel weak, in Christ I am strong; though my life has shifted to a "Plan B" I am still in God's "Plan A." You see, I realize that many of my daunting feelings come not just from the loss of my parents, but in the uncertainty of how it impacts my future. In this vein, I am learning to press beyond my feelings to replace what “I don’t know about the future with what I do know about God” (Catie Caine). As I replace daunting feelings of ambiguity with unwavering confidence in God, I can't help but notice my focus shifting from uncontrollable feelings to undeniable faith.

Death takes much more than an emotional toll on those left to grieve. For the impact of my parents’ death was just as much physical as it was emotional. In the four months between Mom and Dad’s death, I gained 20 pounds (an additional 5lbs after Dad died). It’s not that I sat up eating all night, but being on the road 3-4 days a week left me few options outside of fast food and the comfort treats found in the airport. Aside from the weight, I started noticing random hairs on my face. These hairs turned into patches of hair, which apparently is a common result of unmanaged stress (I thank God for the seamless process of laser hair removal *smiles*). Quickly, I found myself not only in a world that didn’t seem like my own, but I was trapped in a body that was not familiar to me.
 
For anyone who has struggled with weight-loss, you know that it’s not an overnight process. It’s a constant up and down of judging your worth by the numbers on the scale. It’s the juxtaposition of wanting to purchase new clothes that have a better fit, but being too prideful to go up a dress size; it is the juxtaposition of wanting to work out, but desiring to savor a fresh blowout (can I be real lol?). Right before my eyes I’d become someone I didn’t quite recognize in the mirror.
 
About three months ago I made up my mind that I was not going to just lose weight, but that I was going to take my life back. For starters, I wrote down every 5k coming up. I also got back in the gym. I started losing weight (5lbs in about 2 weeks), only to spiral back down.
 
Now, a few months later, I am back in the gym. This time, I have an accountability partner and fitness goals that are a bit more realistic. I am not just working out to lose weight, but I am working out to re-gain my life; I am working out to sew a seed into my future to ensure that when my kids are 29 they won’t be planning my funeral.
 
 So often we allow circumstances in life to impact us, but at some point, we have the responsibility of taking a stand to impact our own lives.