Ever since Mom died I’d asked God why? I’d become enamored with understanding the fullness of what I was facing. I prayed, they died. I longed for them, they seemed so far away. Yet, within the two months after Dad passed, there was a shift in my thinking. Suddenly, there was a shift in the core of my why. Instead of focusing on why my parents died, I started focusing on why God kept me through it all. There are people who literally “lose it” after the death of one parent. Yet there I was facing the loss of two parents in such a short period of time and I was still functioning; I was still believing.
 
It was in exploring the why of my provision that I began embracing the truth that God had a greater plan and purpose for my life. The way I see it, if God kept me through this tragedy, surely, He has a greater plan and purpose for my life.  I could spend the rest of my life asking God why He took my parents, but how much more encouraging is it to ask why he is keeping me. Surely God has something up His sleeve. If God didn’t have a plan for me, they would have buried me right next to my parents. However, since God still has a plan for my life, I couldn’t die even at the most vulnerable time of my life...and neither can you.

 
On the average day, I don’t think about the death of my parents. Instead, I think of them being alive and very much present in my day to day endeavors. I think of funny comments from Mom and hilarious facial expressions from Dad. I think of their advice and often consider what they would “say” when making decisions. I don’t think on my parents with sadness, but it is the flashbacks that pull so tightly at my heart.
 
Although 90% of the flashbacks I have of my parents are positive, there are 10% that are daunting. The flashback of mom’s final moments; the flashback of me running down the hall to get the doctor; the flashback of mom’s lifeless body under the sheet being pushed into the morgue; the flashback of me screaming on the phone with my uncle in distress; closing mom’s casket at her funeral; Dad’s sunken cheeks; Dad’s cries for “help”; both of their caskets being lowered into the ground. Those are the scenes etched in my mind that I will never be able to forget…and I am not sure I want to.
 
You see, it is the flashbacks that are daunting, but the flashbacks also remind me of what God has brought me through. I literally had a seat at death’s table and lived to tell about it. There are many who don’t get up from that seat; many who lose their minds at that seat. Yet, in those moments when I found myself emotionally lifeless, God kept me, covered me and breathed life into me.

There are many who have flashbacks to their past and are left in a state of distress, regret and pain. Yet, there is a power that arises when you can think on your toughest and most tragic moments without the moments themselves having power over you. 

​One of the re-occurring words of comfort offered to me during the death of my parents’ was “You will find your ‘new normal.’” I wasn’t quite sure what it meant and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I didn’t want a new normal, I wanted my old normal back. I wanted Mom to call me everyday and I wanted to call Dad fussing about him sneaking doughnuts into the house (he was diabetic); I wanted to look into Dad’s hazel eyes, feel mom’s warm smile and linger in their embrace. I wanted my old, but had no choice but to embrace something new.

Moving forward has its pros. I am no longer planning funerals or making burial arrangements; I am no longer driving between Atlanta and North Carolina every weekend; I am no longer spending the entirety of my days in estate meetings. Instead, I sleep with my phone on silent, I'm reading books I had put to the side, and I am progressing in ministry. Needless to say, I am moving forward and constantly learning about myself.

Moving forward is refreshing and liberating, but it is also scary. There is always a part of me that looks toward my parents for their input in everyday decisions. Mom and I used to sit and dream for hours, making a bucket list for some of our most exciting plans in life. Yet, as these plans come into fruition, I long to share them with her. When I met the man of my dreams, I wanted nothing more than to bring him home to meet my parents. I wanted Mom to comment on his looks and spirituality; I wanted Dad to show him his guns (so embarrassing lol). When I got called to a long-desired preaching engagement, I wanted to call Mom screaming with excitement; Whenever I travel, I still pick up my phone to call Mom to let her know I made it. I am moving forward in this “new normal” but it is still weird, awkward and uncomfortable.

The only thing I dreaded more than Mom’s funeral was the family viewing to approve her body the day before. I’d had the opportunity to avoid the viewing for my grandparents, but I knew this was one “opportunity” I couldn’t ignore.
 
I arrived at the funeral home with my family and close friends early that Saturday morning. I was in a solemn mood, for the last time I’d seen Mom she was being rolled under a dark sheet into the morgue of the hospital.
 
As we gathered outside of the chapel doors, we were greeted by the funeral director who asked if we were “ready.” The white double doors were opened and just like that, my mother’s body was in full view. I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach as I turned to walk away from the doors. Tears streamed down my face for I knew it was going to be hard, but I just couldn’t take that view.
 
When I got myself together we walked down the aisle and stood above my mother’s body that was once so full of life. After encountering her body in a casket, the deep grief that had consumed me in the hours’ prior was gone. 
 
I never knew how people could say the dead looked “good” until I saw my mother in that casket. She looked stunning- Her hair was perfect, glasses straightened, face perfectly plump and the shade of her melanin was perfect. What a relief it was to see Mom embody such beauty again, for in her final moments of life she looked so tired, exhausted and frail.
 
As we fellowshipped in the chapel of the funeral home, many family members took pictures of Mom’s body. As I glanced at the pictures, there was something odd; something that truly stood out to me. None of the pictures looked like Mom. When looking into the casket, Mom looked just like herself. However, the smartphone pictures captured a different view. I kept looking back and forth between the casket and the pictures, but it just looked so different to me. The woman in the pictures was not my mom.
 
To this day I often wonder why the pictures captured an image so different from what I saw with my own eyes. Perhaps the pictures made it look too “real” (while being present I could simply pretend she was asleep); perhaps it’s something I will never truly “get” or understand; perhaps the pictures simply captured a different view.

​In Dad’s final days he got in this habit of yelling “Help!” I vividly recall lounging in the oversized brown leather recliner across from his Hospice bed when out of a deep sleep he began yelling “HELP! HELP! HONEY HELP!” Startled, yet determined to keep my cool, I got up and walked to the left side of his bed. With terror and anguish, his hazel eyes locked with my deep brown gaze as he continued yelling, “HELP!” “Daddy” I began in the most soothing voice I could muster, “What is it? What do you need?” Yelling as loudly and aggressively as he could he said “HELP! I NEED HELP! HONEY HELP!”

My eyes couldn’t help but fill with tears, though I couldn’t let them fall. For after months of doing all I could for Dad I was in a place where I could no longer provide the help he needed. All I could do was promise everything would be “OK” as I took a seat beside his bed and started praying for my daddy and interceding for peace. Dad soon drifted off into a sleep from which he would not awake.

There are many hypotheses that would give reason to my father’s final plea, but I believe Dad was running from death that day. Yes, he was a Christian and already knew he was dying, but I believe that in seeing the angel of death appear, perhaps his time seemed a bit under-calculated; perhaps though ready in the flesh, his heart longed to do just a little bit more while here on earth.

One of the final words I heard Dad say was “Help” and the irony of it all is that help was the one thing I longed for; I wanted nothing more than to feel a type of “help” that would ease my pain and halt the horror of my reality. For it was “help” that I’d been crying out for since Mom died.

On many occasions, since the loss of my parents, I’ve cried out for “Help” from God. You know, on those days when my prayers are muffled between a rush of tears and a lack of understanding. The truth is that my desire for “help” continues to be the constant in my ongoing conversations with God. There is something about “help” that only God can provide; about a type of “help” that serves as a balm to my broken heart. While I can’t describe it, I can feel it and anyone around me can see it. God’s help is what allows me to get up each morning; God’s help is what allows me to smile and find joy even in this season of my life; God’s help wipes my tears and holds me close; God’s help aligns me with the people needed to move forward in life; God’s help is what allows me to still testify of God’ goodness and grace even during traumatic loss. I am grateful for God’s help.

​One of the re-occurring words of comfort offered to me during the death of my parents’ was “You will find your ‘new normal.’” I wasn’t quite sure that it meant and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I didn’t want a new normal, I wanted my old normal back. I wanted Mom to call me everyday and I wanted to call Dad fussing about him sneaking doughnuts into the house (he was diabetic);  I wanted to look into Dad’s hazel eyes, feel mom’s warm smile and linger in their embrace. I wanted my old, but had no choice but to embrace something new.
 
Moving forward has its pros. I am no longer planning funerals or making burial arrangements; I am no longer driving between Atlanta and North Carolina every weekend; I am no longer spending the entirety of my days in estate meetings.  Instead, I sleep with my phone on silent, I serve God with the love of my life, and I am progressing in ministry. Needless to say, I am moving forward and constantly learning about myself.
 
Moving forward is refreshing and liberating, but it is also scary. There is always a part of me that looks toward my parents for their input on my everyday decisions. Mom and I used to sit and dream for hours, making a bucket list for some of our most exciting plans in life. Yet, as these plans come into fruition, I long to share them with her. When I met the man of my dreams, I wanted nothing more than to bring him home to meet my parents. I wanted Mom to comment on his looks and spirituality; I  wanted Dad to show him his guns (so embarrassing lol). When I got called to a long-desired preaching engagement, I wanted to call Mom screaming with excitement; Whenever I travel, I still pick up my phone to call Mom to let her know I made it. I am moving forward in this “new normal” but it is weird, awkward and still uncomfortable. 

​The day before Mom died was as normal a Tuesday as I could have expected.  I ran a few errands for Mom while she spent the morning cleaning. At one point Mom called me into her room and asked “Kiya, will you please help me hang up these suits.” One by one she unpacked her suitcase from our recent travels and handed me the suits she’d purchased in NYC. When she came across a till-colored suit coat with grey dress pants she said, “This one is my favorite.” I smiled and said “It is pretty” to which she responded, “Kiya, THIS one is my favorite.” I caught the emphasis she placed on it, but didn’t take it as more than her expressing strong admiration for a new suit.
 
Later that morning Mommy said, “I was going to go to the hospital today, but I have some business to take care of in Durham.” She explained the business and I promised to take care of it in the coming days if she would simply let me take her to the hospital. Surprisingly, Mom bargained with the tradeoff of me greasing her scalp. “What? Mommy, I don’t mind but not one is going to see your hair at the hospital. We are only going to be there a day or two.” “Kiya,” she said sternly, “I would like you to grease my scalp.” Confused, I did as I was told as she sat peacefully.
 
When I finished, she jokingly said “Now, let me go look in the mirror to see what you have done!” Smiles. I suppose Mom approved of my handiwork (lol) because when she came back into the room she was ready to go.
 
Time after time I’ve re-played this interaction in my mind. I smile. Nostalgic memories of Mom greasing my grandmother’s scalp on a Saturday afternoon linger in my mind. I smile. I think of the beautiful till-colored suit, which was the suit in which Mom was buried. I smile. Though her last 24 hours were full of tears (from me), there were also many, many smiles.