Whispers of Grace

For the last few months, every time someone asks how I’m doing, I force a smile and say, “I’m doing good.” But I see the way their eyebrows twitch, how their eyes linger on my face, silently asking for something more. It’s like speaking a different language—one where “good” never really means good.

My friends aren’t much better. They keep asking, “How’s the family holding up?” and I nod and say, “We’re doing good.” Yet their silence always stretches a beat too long, as if they’re waiting for a crack in my composure—tears, anger, anything that would prove I’m not okay.

Sarah, my girlfriend, is more direct. “You need to talk to someone,” she says gently, her concern etched into every syllable. “Burying yourself in work isn’t healthy.” I wave her off, insisting I’m perfectly fine. Truth is, I believed that until today.

It’s Christmas Eve afternoon, and I’m back at my parents’ house. My father, my brother, and I sit in the living room, half-listening to a local news report about holiday traffic. The biggest question on our minds is what to order for dinner later—pizza or Chinese takeout. No one seems to care which.

There’s no smell of gingerbread cookies wafting from the kitchen, no clatter of pots and pans. In fact, the kitchen is still, a silence I’ve never known on Christmas. No off-key carols, no one scolding us for sneaking bites of the side dishes too early.

There’s no Christmas tree, either. Just an empty corner where it should stand. The tattered angel Mom insisted on using every year is nowhere in sight. No garlands, no lights. It feels like December in name only, a random day for three people to stare blankly at a TV screen.

I glance at Dad, hunched over in his recliner, remote in hand. My brother scrolls through his phone on the couch. The sparkle that once animated our holidays is gone—our family’s life and grace gone with Mom’s passing. For the first time, I feel the full weight of that absence, and it hits me that maybe I’m not as “fine” as I’ve been pretending.

Regret gnawed at me as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the living room floor. I stare at the muted TV, but the images blur together, and all I can hear is the looping thought: I wasn’t there for her.

I replay the months of her battle with cancer in my mind, each memory dripping with what-ifs. While she and Dad shouldered hospital visits and sleepless nights, I was halfway across the world, chasing urgent work projects and conference calls I once thought were so important. I should have been sitting by her side during those chemo appointments, holding her hand on the roughest days, supporting Dad as he navigated appointment after appointment alone.

A lump forms in my throat as I remember how quick I was to find excuses. “I’ll visit next weekend.” “Let me just wrap up this report first.” “I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom.” And now, there are no more tomorrows. 

Seeking fresh air, I step into the backyard, the damp grass cool against my bare feet. My mind drifts to childhood, to a memory so clear it’s like I’m reliving it. I’m seven years old, running through the backyard barefoot, chasing after my brother. I trip and scrape my knee on the driveway. I still recall the sting, and more vividly, I recall how I sprinted straight into Mom’s arms. She scooped me up like I weighed nothing, pressed her lips gently to my temple, and assured me everything would be okay. One warm hug from her, and my tears dried almost instantly.

She would sit by my bed when I had even the slightest fever, reading stories until I drifted off. She was the first to check for nightmares, smoothing my hair back and whispering that I was safe. She always knew what to do, what to say.

But where was I when she needed that same reassurance, that same unwavering support?

If I’m being honest I assumed I had all the time in the world to spend with her because I never thought for a second that she wouldn’t make it. She had successfully completed two years of chemo and immunotherapy, each appointment ticking by with optimistic results. Dad had orchestrated a near-perfect regimen for her—hand-cooked meals three times a day, carefully balanced with nutrients and vitamins. 

In my mind, if anyone deserved a second chance, it was them. They did everything right. And for a while, it looked like a miracle in the making: the scans finally showed no sign of cancer, the doctors spoke in hopeful tones. We even threw a small celebration when her oncologist mentioned the word “remission”. I just assumed that if you follow all the rules—work hard, pray fervently, stay hopeful—you get rewarded.

But a month later, she was gone.

One day, I was chatting with Mom on the phone, excited over one of her recipes I’d finally mastered. The next day, Dad was calling in a panic, his voice cracking as he said she could barely breathe and needed to be hospitalized. The doctors said it was a post-treatment complication: years of treatment had ravaged her immune system, leaving her unable to fight a sudden infection. She survived cancer only to be taken by something so random. Where is the justice in that?

I still can’t reconcile how quickly everything unraveled. The funeral felt unreal—muted voices, the heavy scent of lilies, the hush of people offering condolences I was too numb to process. I grew up with faith—my parents made sure we went to church regularly, even if my brother and I grumbled about getting up early on Sundays.

They taught us that if you live a righteous life, if you do good, if you trust in God’s plan, then the rest would fall into place. Yet here we were, on the other side of the darkest day imaginable. Mom’s funeral was the last time any of us stepped foot inside a church. 

Their friends from church tried to comfort us, repeating the same well-worn phrases like “God loved her too much to see her suffer”, or that “She’s in a better place”. I get that they meant well but none of it helped. If there is a Heaven she’s at the gate right now arguing to be sent back as the best place for her is with her family.

What I really wanted was an explanation. Our pastor, a family friend for as long as I can remember, tried a different approach. He asked if I’d read the Book of Job. “Job asks God why the righteous suffer,” he reminded me. “He loses everything—family, wealth, health—and questions God’s justice. But God never really gives Job the answer he expects. Instead, God asks a series of questions like: Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?”

He explained, “It’s a reminder of how limited our perspective is. Our attempts to find neat, rational explanations for suffering may not suffice, because the divine plan is infinitely larger than we can conceive.”

I nodded along, but I couldn’t stop thinking: Does that mean we shouldn’t even try to understand? Or is it that we can’t understand because the truth is too vast, too complicated for human comprehension? Maybe it’s both. The loss was so big that the questions about life and suffering that came with it had caused my brain to shut down back then and maybe why I threw myself back into work. But the Pastor's words echo again in my mind today on Christmas. 

I don’t know if I find comfort in that or if it just makes me feel more lost. There’s a strange sort of awe in realizing how big reality might be—bigger than my anger, bigger than my grief—but it also feels lonely, like I’m stranded in the dark trying to catch a glimpse of light somewhere on the horizon.

My mind comes back to the present as I’m sitting on the metal chair in the backyard, watching the sun begin its descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. The cold breeze brushes against my face, a stark contrast to the warm, moist tears that trace paths down my cheeks. Each tear feels like a release, a small surrender to the emotions I’ve kept bottled up for so long.

As I sit there, grappling with the weight of my thoughts, a realization settles over me. Like Job, there are no explanations out there for me. The questions remain, but the answers never come. We as a family have to start moving forward. Just because Mom is gone doesn’t mean we can’t keep her memory alive. One way to do that is to keep our traditions alive.

With tears still in my eyes, I stand up and walk back into the living room. I see Dad and Jake sitting there, their own grief evident in their silent stares. I pull them into a tight hug, feeling the warmth and solidity of their presence. “We need to celebrate Christmas together,” I say softly with a crack in my voice. “Just like Mom would want us to.”

They don’t need any explanation. It’s almost as if they’ve been waiting for someone to say it out loud. Jake nods, determination flickering in his eyes. Dad’s expression softens, a hint of the old resilience shining through. Without a word, they understand.

“Jake, can you run to the store and pick up some things?” I ask. Jake stands, nodding. “Roger that.”

Dad rises and heads towards the closet. “Let me find some of Mom’s old decorations,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

I head to the kitchen, feeling a mix of sadness and hope. The kitchen, once silent and cold, starts to feel alive again as I begin prepping the ingredients Mom loved. Cooking was something Mom and I always cherished together. It wasn’t just about the food; it was about the time we spent laughing, sharing stories, and creating something tangible.

Over the next few hours, our home transforms. Jake returns with everything we need, Dad uncovers the old Christmas decorations tucked away in boxes, and I start cooking.

“Remember how Mom would get so angry if Dad bought the wrong brand of tomato sauce?” Jake chuckles, shaking his head.

Dad laughs, a genuine sound that hasn’t echoed through these rooms in months. “Yeah, she always insisted it had to be the right one. I never understood how something so small could bother her so much.”

I smile through my tears. “And how there had to be at least three unique compliments to the cookies before she’d let us eat more than one.”

We set the table, the aroma of our shared cooking filling the house with a warmth that had been missing since Mom left. Decorating the tree becomes a collaborative effort, each ornament a testament to our shared history. As we hang each decoration, we recount stories of how Mom would make the simplest moments special.

As evening falls, we sit together, surrounded by the fruits of our labor and the memories that bind us. Sometimes we laugh so hard we have to stop to catch our breath. Other times, we pause and let the sorrow wash over us. In these moments, I realize that while we may never understand why Mom had to leave us so abruptly, we have the strength to honor her memory through the traditions she loved.

I look around at my family—Dad’s steady presence, Jake’s quiet strength, and my own sense of renewal. Acceptance doesn’t mean forgetting; it means finding a way to live with the loss while keeping the essence of who she was alive in our hearts.