The year was 2006 and my mom had
cancer. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer two weeks before I
started my freshman year at Bob Jones University. I was brought home
for a week to visit when her condition had gotten particularly bad. I
was home for a week when it was decided that it was time to make
arrangements for what appeared to be the inevitable.
My older brother, my younger sister,
and I went with our dad to the funeral home to make the arrangements. The
somber task seemed so premature, but absolutely necessary. After that
distasteful task was done, the four of us returned home to be with
the rest of the family. After a while, it became apparent that a few
members of the family were in need of a few clothing items. Once
again, in spite of the apparent crassness of the situation, the four
of us loaded into the family van and headed for town.
We milled about the clothing
departments, halfheartedly sorting through dress shirts and ties,
blouses and skirts. Everyone managed to find what they were looking
for, but would have rather not needed. We checked out and made our
way to our parking spot. Dad got a phone call on his cell phone just
as he put the van in drive. I don't remember what he said, but the
message was clear. I looked at my sister who was sitting next to me
on the gray bench seat. Her lower lip quivered slightly as her eyes
filled with tears. I reached over and rested my arm across her
shoulders in a gesture that felt forced and awkward, but I didn't
know what else to do. My dad and brother were silent in the front
bucket seats.
The ride back to the family farm was
a grueling forty-five minutes long. We drove up the long gravel
driveway to the farmhouse and parked the van. We walked up the
sidewalk towards the house. My youngest brother and sister were
standing in the grass in front of the porch. I paused and took in the
scene as my dad and older brother walked around me. The sun was
bright in the western sky, casting long shadows across the lawn. The
shadows across the faces of my family eclipsed all the rest. Looks of
confusion, fear, and vulnerability were plastered across the faces of
my younger siblings while my older brother and I fought against the
expressions of pain and realization that threatened to emerge.
I walked into the house and looked
into the room where my mother had been resting. The reality that I
had already accepted was confirmed. I turned on my heel and took off
towards the north eastern corner of the farm.
I didn't have a
destination or a plan. I just knew that my life, the lives of my
siblings and my dad, and the lives of so many others had been changed
forever. What were we going to do? How were we every going to be
okay? I was nineteen years old and had three siblings that were even
younger. How were we supposed to grow up without our mom? There was
so much more that we needed from her, but she was gone. The eventual
reality that we all knew to expect form an extensive family history
of cancer had finally come to fruition and I was at a loss for how to
survive this loss.
Eventually, a concerned family friend
caught up to me and walked me back to the house. The services were a
couple days later and after a week, I was off to college to continue
my education.
That was exactly ten years ago. A lot
has happened since the untimely passing of Christa Henning. The world
is definitely a dimmer place without her. I miss her every day. My
family has experienced other losses, but none have stung in quite the
same manner. However, when I look at my brothers and sisters, I see
two kind and strong men who could take an the world if the need arose
and two beautiful and compassionate women who radiate Mom's kindness
and compassion. Three of us are married and have children, and the
other two are working good jobs and settling into adulthood. Our
relationships with our father are stronger than they've ever been and
we are better people because of his example.
There isn't a day that goes by that I
don't see Mom's touch in my life or the lives of those around us. We
are better people for having known her.
In short... Ten years later, I can
honestly say... I Guess We're Doing Okay.
