The first time I remember Mom praying was when I was maybe 7 or 8 years old. I recall walking into Mom’s room as she knelt beside her bed. “Mommy!” I enthusiastically started. “Kiya,” she said in a calm tone with her eyes still closed, “Mommy is praying.” In the morning, at night and any time we were about to leave the house, Mommy would be on her knees praying. Sometimes I would innocently think she was sleeping as she would stay down there so long.
 
The last time I saw Mom on her knees praying was the Tuesday she had me take her to the hospital for what would be her final stay. I remember walking into her bedroom where she was knelt on the ground with her clasped hands propped up on the side of the bed. Later, when she exited her bedroom, my dad, brother and I met her in the living room as we joined hands in prayer.
 
The day she passed, Wednesday, I recall walking to her bedside (she was still responsive at this point) and saying, “Mommy, we haven’t prayed together today, do you want to pray?” As we reached for each other’s hands. I prayed first and Mom’s prayer followed. I had no idea that she would die hours later; I had no idea that would be the last time I’d hear my Mommy pray.
 
After Mom died, I remember “forgetting” how to pray for myself. I still spoke to God daily, finding something to thank Him for and filling any prayer requests that came my way, but as for praying for myself, it didn’t happen. You see, I’d prayed for God to heal my Mommy, but she still died. How do you form prayers to God when your reality reflects a situation in which you don't feel your prayers are being answered? How do you pray for joy from the One you naively think is responsible for taking your joy away? How exactly do you pray? What exactly was I supposed to pray for? I knew God and loved Him, but I didn’t feel too high on His priority list.
 
These debilitating thoughts and painful talks with God treaded my lips until a warm morning in November when Dad was given a fatal diagnosis at UNC Hospital. As the words rolled off the doctor’s lips, warm tears rolled down my face.  “I am so sorry, Ms. Ward” the doctor started, “I know you’ve been through a lot here lately”
 
Much of that day is a blur, but I vividly recall calling out the name of “Jesus.” No matter how deep my sorrow, one thing I knew for sure was that there was power in the name of Jesus and that I was still covered by His blood; I knew if I could just call on His name, it would suffice until I could articulate a prayer; until I could find the strength and the words to give meaning to the way that I felt.
 
Looking back, I can say that calling on the name of “Jesus” was enough. In the weeks that followed Dad’s diagnosis, God taught me how to pray again. No, they weren’t the formal, fancy prayers, but they were the prayers of my heart; I learned that every conversation I’d had with God since Mom died, counted; That whether I was calling on the name “Jesus” or simply sitting in His presence, it counted. I started praying the Psalms (the lament and imprecatory Psalms were my favorite); I purchased the Sarah Young devotional and read it daily; I started listening to online sermons each  morning; I chose a book of the Bible to study daily (the book of James) and refused to let the text go, until it meant something to me.

During this time, God gave language to my muted prayers and reconciled my grief and lack of understanding regarding Mom’s passing. God showed me that Mom’s deliverance (my prayer) had come (been answered), it just wasn’t in the way I expected; for death is the fulfillment of a promise from God. Perhaps it was in Mom’s death that I forgot how to pray, but it was in Dad’s sickness (leading up to his death) that I received the  ultimate reminder.
 
I thank God for each of you who prayed (and continue to pray) for my family and me during our time of loss. Perhaps your prayer went to God on one of those days when I couldn't pray for myself <3.

My mother was like a trough in which I placed the burdens of my life. Mom had a way of seeing through my “I’m fine” and getting to the core of whatever frivolous worry I’d allowed to take over my mind.  When at the root, Mom would pray for me and speak to whatever the circumstance. It never failed that no matter how “big” the situation, hearing Mom say, “Kiya, everything is going to be alright” felt like soothing ointment to my soul. If she said it, I believed it.
 
Among her soothing quotes was one she would often say in times of trouble, “Kiya, it’s not a death.” She compared every situation to death to expose the truth that no matter what I was facing, there was someone facing much worse; that no matter what I was facing, there was someone saying a final goodbye.
 
Comparing everyday trials and tribulations to someone facing the death of a loved one has a way of shrinking everyday worries to minimal concerns. Just think, “He doesn’t like me” compared to “I need to write my mother’s obituary”; “I can’t believe he/she did that” compared to “I will never feel the embrace of my parent again” or “I don’t know how my bills are going to be paid” compared to “I watched my parents’ casket go into the ground.” For me, death was always the “worst” case scenario that made any situation I was facing seem "not so bad"…only this time it was death and it was bad.
 
The death of my parents aroused a pain that I didn’t know existed- it stung, it cut, it bruised, it lingered, it burned, it suffocated and it hurt…all at the same time. There were times I cried inconsolably and times that I couldn’t cry at all; times when I felt the weight of the world on my back and times when I was numb from all the pain. The up and down of polarizing emotions was exhausting and all I could say was “It is a death.”
 
With the whirlwind of emotions I knew I needed more than the "ear" of devoted friends, but I didn't have the courage to go to counseling right away. You see,  prior to Mom’s death I had a very hypocritical relationship with the idea of counseling- I’d encourage others to receive counseling, but I felt “ashamed” going on my own. Counseling was something for people who needed “help” and as a minister surely God was all the help I needed, right?
 
I will never forget the first time I called to make a counseling appointment. The administrative assistant answered the phone and through tears, a shaky voice and a huge gulp in my throat I said, “My name is Kiya Ward and I just lost my mom and I need help making sense of everything.” I was at my most vulnerable point and honestly that was about as much as I could get out without completely losing it over the phone.
 
Within the same week, I met the woman who would be my therapist. She was a beautiful African American woman with chocolate skin and almond-colored eyes. She had a smile that could light up a room and warmth that only a mother could exude. She had a tone in her voice that commanded one’s attention and an elegance that reminded me so much of my mom. To this day I count my therapist among my greatest gifts from God as she normalized counseling by helping me understand that although God was the root of my help, He also used vessels (i.e.: licensed professionals) to strengthen and encourage me on my restorative journey toward healing. Most importantly, my therapist taught me how to “be.”
 
Learning how to “be” has been one of the most challenging (yet fundamental) parts of my healing process. You see, I am my mother’s daughter (and my grandmother’s granddaughter), which means that I’ve been bred with the highest level of lady-like decorum. Unfortunately, this type of decorum doesn’t lend space for one to “be.” The lady-like decorum that I embraced focused more on the “appearance” of emotions than the “reality” of them; it meant keeping in feelings that could be perceived as weak and always remembering that a smile and appropriate attire conceals most emotions from the human eye. Shifting this ideology didn’t come over night, but I soon learned what it meant to “be.”

I learned that to “be” meant breaking the shackles of societal expectations of “lady-like” decorum surrounding my emotions. For me, it meant that if I didn’t feel like being around people, I wasn’t rude for saying “no”; that even if I had 18 missed calls, 13 voicemails and 43 text messages to which I did not respond, I was not impolite; I wasn’t “weak” for crying, I wasn't "ungrateful" for being sad, and I wasn’t “rude” for being anti-social. I was simply learning to “be."

​Learning how to “be” is the way that I give myself permission to unapologetically grieve and to be human in the face of such great loss; learning how to “be” is the nakedness in my intimate relationship with God and my reality with the world.

 ​I returned from my summer internship in the Bahamas on July 28th. On July 29th Mom had a flight booked with me and one of her closest friends to travel to NYC. Mom was so adamant about this trip. I remember asking her to consider pushing back the timing of trip, “Mom, can we go next week? We could stay longer. Or what if we wait until Labor Day or my fall break?" Yet Mom declined my pursuits and remained  adamant about the timing (I'm so glad she did). The trip was very enjoyable as Mom had a bucket list of of activities pre-planned-we shopped at our favorite boutique, stayed at our favorite hotel and went to an awesome show on Broadway ("Motown The Musical").

One week later mom traveled with me to Atlanta. During this trip we went to a recording of her favorite show, Family Feud. I will never forget the look of excitement on Mommy’s face as we laughed, clapped and embraced the the adventure. She was thrilled at the opportunity and we literally laughed together until it hurt. On commercial breaks, Steve Harvey told jokes and spoke about his testimony. Mom loved hearing how God moved in Steve’s life; she loved hearing how God delivered him from so many "valley" experiences. Mom talked about Steve for days after the recording. For our remaining time in Atlanta, we visited family, toured the city, and had lots of quality time at my apartment. In our quality time, she challenged me in areas of weakness and encouraged me to keep my faith despite adversity. By this time I knew something was up and  Mommy sensed every bit of my fear. “Kiya,” she said, “I am not worried about me. I am worried about you worrying about me.” We laughed... I cried...She ministered.
 
We returned to North Carolina from Atlanta just one day prior to a retirement celebration given to Mom by her Bennett College family (she retired on August 1, 2016 after 26 years of service).  I remember asking Mommy what she could see herself doing one year after retirement to which she responded, “I will be teaching and writing.” As I write this blog I can testify that mom is still teaching; that through this blog, Mom is still writing.
 
The retirement celebration was blissful, yet solemn. Mom's colleagues seemed taken aback by her fragile frame and concerned with her shortness of breath. "Allergies" she said, "My allergies are acting up and have led to a few respiratory issues, so forgive my shortness of breath." Everyone knew Mom was a very private person, thus interrogating the "allergies" explanation would have been out of order.  Mom's sickness was the "elephant in the room" that everyone tried to tip toe around with lighthearted stories and  tears of laughter,  “Oh, Dr. Ward, don’t you remember…” or “Dr. Ward, that time in…” and "Dr. Ward, thank you so much for..." Person after person poured around our table until there was literally a line  of people waiting to speak with Mommy. She smiled...she chuckled...she said "Oh, thank you."

Of the stories told that day, my favorite came from the lips of my Mommy. Mom was a passionate and dynamic orator; thus, she gave what would be her final public speech at this retirement celebration (see clip above). Met with a standing ovation (as most of her speeches were), Mom smiled humbly, tucked in her lips and took her seat.  As we exited the premises, for what would be Mom's final time, she smiled and said, “That went well.”

Mom’s retirement celebration was on a Thursday and she passed the following Wednesday. Looking back, I see that Mom had already found the inner peace spoken of in her speech. And it is that inner peace, that God- ordained peace, that is keeping me and leading me on  this journey.

​The week after Dad passed was like a crashing train-I called out of all family gatherings, cancelled my counseling sessions, silenced my phone and tried to shut off mentally and emotionally. Though the funerals were over, my thoughts were just beginning.
 
I juggled feelings of loneliness, resentment, despair and failure. After Dad died, I’d looked forward to getting through the funeral so that I could just “think” but instead I found my own thoughts suffocating. I remember getting up the morning after the funeral and as I walked to the kitchen window I asked my best friend, “What am I supposed to do now” to which she responded “Nothing.” It was then that I realized that the road to healing wasn’t about me taking control of my life, it was about submitting all control to God.
 
I knew I had to submit my feelings cto God, but how?  I didn’t feel like being around people or even talking on the phone; I didn’t feel like reading the Bible; and I only felt like social media to mentally escape from my own reality.
 
 After a week of doing “nothing” my bestie and I decided to head to Miami for the holidays. I knew that my favorite holiday was coming and the last thing I wanted was to be home for Christmas. Christmas for our family was more than just a few minutes of exchanging gifts. Christmas for our family included multiple nights of social gatherings (mom loved entertaining);it was opening gifts on Dec 24th, so that we could spend Christmas Day celebrating Jesus without distraction; it was going to Lifeway  to get the perfect Christmas cards to send out; it was last minute shopping and a special dinner on the 26th in remembrance of my maternal grandfather's birthday. Having all of these rituals come to a sudden halt was something I just wasn't ready to embrace.

My time in Miami was well spent- I ate overpriced food, laid under an umbrella on the beach and for the first time since I can remember, I kept my phone off an entire night.
 
On Christmas night, I sat on our rooftop terrace (pictured above) overlooking the beautiful lights (everyone who knows me knows how much I love bright lights!). As I sat and prayed, I began to cry. “God, why?” I pleaded, “Why would you let this happen?” As tears streamed down my sun kissed skin, words began to pour off my lips. Words of anger, frustration and resentment flowed like a river as I poured my anguish on to God’s feet. I was angry with God and had been since Mom died, yet I had been too proud to tell God; I was too worried about being “wrong” or “sinful” but I had a bone to pick with God and it wasn’t until I was hundreds of feet in the air that I found the courage to pick the fight; the courage to submit my feelings to God.
 
On that rooftop, I learned that submitting my feelings to God was about humbling myself and exposing my hurt to Him; it was saying "GOD HELP!" and allowing Him to come into my heart to heal me. God wasn’t looking for my “perfectly polished” prayer, He was looking for my honesty, vulnerability and genuine desire for Him; He was looking for my "ugly cry face" ; the deep groan that came when I no longer had words to express my pain; and the focus of my eyes when I had no where else to look but towards a dark sky lit up by Miami lights. God wanted me and everything that I encompassed.
 
When I came down from the rooftop terrace, I went to sleep with the residue of damp tears lingering on my face and woke up with a spurt of energy that certainly caught me by surprise. While still in bed, I grabbed my calendar and started writing out plans God had for my life. This girl who hours prior couldn’t even think of the next day was suddenly enamored with the months to come. I can’t say I woke up filled with joy, but I was filled with the next best thing-EXPECTATION! God had a plan for me; God had a future for me. Psalm 30:5 reads, “Weeping may endure for night, but joy comes in the morning.” For the first time in months I felt like my morning was coming! I began to “smell” it; embrace it; and receive it.
 
When I lost my parents, I thought I’d lost my life; my future; my promise. But I now see that losing my parents only shifted me to better align me with God’s plan for my life. I am still on course, my destiny remains un-touched, and though not here in the flesh, my parents will always be with me on this journey called life. 

I spent the summer of 2016 as the interim pastor of a church in the Bahamas. It was one of the most exhilarating and informative experiences I’ve had to date. One of the most memorable parts of the trip was not in the Bahamas, but in the ongoing conversations I had with my mother while there. 
 
Throughout the summer, Mom constantly told me how much she enjoyed our conversations. She was a very complementary person, so her positive affirmation did not stand out to me; however, her solemn tone did. “Kiya,” she began to say, “I am going to miss this so much.” Confused I would respond, “Miss what?” “Talking with you like this” she would respond. Thinking that she was referring to how busy I would be when I returned to seminary in the fall I would respond, “Oh Mommy, you know I always make time for you. Besides, I always call after my study groups and if I ever miss your call I always call back. It will be fine.” Yet she would always respond so solemnly, “I will miss this.”
 
In our conversations over the summer, Mom provided much insight and reiterated her love for our family. She would say, “Kiya, I love you so much” to which I would always say “Love you more” to which she would respond, “But you don’t know how much I love you.” I smile as I remember the declarations of our “love.”
 
 My mother lived for love. She adored the song “Love lifted me” as she used the phrase to reference times when she had to take the “high road” in tough situations; times when the enemy tried to bring her down and God’s love brought her out. Over the summer she started using this phrase more and more victoriously as she would declare, “Kiya, love lifted me!” 
 
To this day I am still comforted by my mother’s love. On days when I cry inconsolably, I hear her singing to me (“Momma’s baby feel betta; Momma’s baby feel betta, betta”) ; on days when I feel confused, I hear her wisdom; and on days when I want to give up, I feel her loving embrace. Song of Solomon 8:6 says that love is as strong as death and despite the numerous commentaries and concordances I’ve studied, this scripture has never held the weight it does now as as I continue to feel Mom’s love so present in my life.
 
In the months following Mom’s death, I’ve found myself speechless at how a God who loves me so much, could take the one person in the world who I love the most. The one thing that satisfies my deep inquiry is the realization that although I love my mommy, God loves her more. It was God’s love that lifted my mommy five months ago and it is God's love that is keeping me five months later.  Happy Birthday Mommy (1/17/50-8/17/16).

​Through my mid-20s it would have been an overstatement to say I was “close” to my dad. I lived and breathed my mom; she was my entire world and though I loved my dad, I made little room for him in my world. You see, Dad had a hot temper and hazel eyes that could cut. He could be sweet as pie or as mean as a bull. But despite his mood on any given day, he was a man full of love. 
 
Dad said “I love you” daily, but he showed love in a different way than Mom. He wasn’t the “warm” or “empathetic” father. Instead, he was the father who said what was on his mind, while staring a hole right through you. If he was mad, you knew it. If he was happy, you knew it. He was predictable and I knew his moods without ever knowing how much he loved us; I knew his moods without ever knowing him.
 
I often joke around and say that the four months between Mom and Dad’s death was the time that I “met” my father. For the first time in 28 years, I “met” a Dad who I enjoyed being around, laughing with and confiding in. For the first time, I met a Dad who I leaned on for emotional support; I met a supportive Dad who wanted to know about my day and didn't miss a single preaching engagement; I met a Dad who despite it all, made me feel like everything was going to be OK. Prior to Dad, Mom was the only one in the world who ever provided such assurance and comfort for me. Yet, the comfort was mutual.
 
From August 2016 to December 2016, I traveled home to NC from Atlanta 3-4 days a week. When I would come home my father was always waiting for me. You see, he would call ahead wanting to know the exact time I would be in town and you better believe that when I pulled up to his residence, he was ready with a ball cap, jeans and his khaki-colored jacket. Sometimes he would even have his friends or some of the employees come to my car to say “Hello.” It never failed that their “Hello” was followed by a “congratulations” of whatever accolade I’d told Dad about for the week- He could not keep good news to himself. Week after week, as Dad got in my car, he would always start complaining about how low my coupe sat to the ground as he arranged his 6-foot stature in my bucket seats. Yet, through all the complaining he would stop, stare at me and then say, “Hey baby” or “You are so beautiful” or “You make me think of my momma.”
 
Our outings were never too complex- Target, church or an occasional meeting regarding the estate. Dad never cared where we went, he just valued our time together. There were countless times we would be in the car together saying nothing at all. He would look out of the window in deep thought and I would ask, “Dad what are you thinking about?” to which he would respond “Just talking to God.” Moments later he would turn to me and say, “You look like you are thinking, Baby.”
 
When November hit, Dad was given a fatal diagnosis with only weeks to live. With this news in early November, I moved back to NC and made it my entire duty to care for and love on my Dad. Whether it was running errands for him, praying with him or simply rubbing his back as he threw up his own bile, I was committed to being there with him. He would often say, "Baby, you do so much for me" to which I would respond " It's because I love you, Deddy! There's no one I'd rather do this for." He'd smile for we both knew that even in desperate times, love would conquer all.
 
Many days I sat in his room trying to make sense of it all. How was I to reconcile or make peace with the thought of losing my Dad? After living 28 years with a Dad I did not fully appreciate, I’d finally “met” the father that I longed for; I met a father who I could joke with; I met a father who was patient and who I wanted around. I needed him so much, how could he leave me now?
 
Close family, friends and co-workers visited Dad in his last weeks of life. Countless stories were told of fond memories and exciting occurrences. I will never forget one of Dad’s co-workers who, through tears of seeing Dad’s frailty, said, “Kiya, one thing your Dad loved was his wife and kids.” As Dad listened, his co-worker told story after story about sacrifices Dad made throughout his life for our family. That’s when it all started to come together for me; that’s when I gained the understanding that the Dad that I’d fallen head over heels for in 4 months had been there my entire life; this wasn’t a “new” Dad, it was simply a new lens through which I was seeing him.
 
I’ve spent countless days trying to understand every aspect of my parents’ passing. Why did Mom go first? Why did Dad pass when he did? Though I have many unanswered questions, I know one thing for sure and that is that Mom died first as a sign of God’s amazing grace. You see, if Dad had passed first I would have never had the opportunity to apologize to him for the years of not understanding or fully appreciating him; I would have never had the opportunity to be with him and care for him; I would have never had the opportunity to “meet” my father. I thank God for gifting me the grace and opportunity to "meet" my father.

Seventeen. My mother was born on the 17th, died on the 17th and my father died just 17 weeks later. In a matter of months my entire life turned upside down and the one commonality that stuck out in my mind was the number seventeen.
 
It was August 17th, 2016 and at 4:05pm I stood over my mother’s comatose body as she took her last breath at the age of 65. I was a certified Momma’s Baby, who in a matter of seconds became the woman my mother raised me to be. Managing properties, taking care of my father, balancing my own jobs, and going to school full time became my regiment. Atlanta during the week and North Carolina on weekends was my weekly itinerary. But in a weird, very Type-A kind of way, staying busy was my therapy. I had to keep pushing because there was business to be taken care of and I had a father who depended on me greatly. The busier I was, the less I time I had to focus on the loss; the busier I was, the more forced I felt to get out of bed each morning.
 
It was December 11th, 2016 at 3:45am when I got the call that my father passed. I’d left him just three hours prior as I’d felt an overwhelming peace to “go home.” In a way, I knew that was the last time I would see him; I knew it was the last time I would hear him breathing. I also knew that my father was not going to make the transition with anyone around, not even me. He was a “manly man” and a “proud” man. We’d been through a lot together in the weeks and months prior, but this last move was one he’d have to make without me.
 
Less than 3 hours after I left my father, I received the call. “Kiya, this is Jenny from Hospice,” she said in a sure tone, “Your dad passed 5 minutes ago at 3:40am.” Although his death was anticipated days before, it still hit me like a punch in the stomach. My heart raced out of my chest and I laid there staring at my phone. Tears did not come nor did I scream, I just laid there.  I called my sister to make arrangements to meet the next day. I turned on my lamp and I sat there…for hours I sat there just as I’d sat 17 weeks prior trying to make sense of God's plan.
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That is what this blog is, it is a sneak peak into the way that God has allowed me to make sense of the loss of my parents. Though I wish this pain on no one, I hope that through my words you may find words of your own; that through my voice you may find a voice to your hurt that leads you closer to Christ.