How losing someone you Love changes your name

the more you love, the more it hurts

Right before the pandemic hit, 
you got some devastating news.
your leg couldn’t carry you anymore.

Isn’t it weird
how your future was bent 
without anyone asking you?

You went for a routine check-up.
This time, the primary
had said something different.

You used to ride — in the back of trucks.
Not the comfy kind,
the construction ones.
Just to make a living.

Often, you thought of yourself last.
Maybe this was why.
I don’t know.
I should have asked.

So you went under the knife,
hoping — to borrow knees
that were not yours to begin with.

Were you scared?
Nope.
I never saw a sign.
Unfazed can’t even describe your faith.

That somehow,
even at 75,
you believed that you
wouldn’t need a cane afterwards.

I watched you fight 
those knees into submission.
Pretty much telling them:
“Hey you're mine now, I tell you where to go.”

You were just a different type of woman.
And you did it.
Never needed any hands to hold.

On weekends,
we'd drive from NMB to Little Haiti,
scavenging for good deals
at farmers market.

You just loved to haggle.
Even in the sticky Miami heat 
planting your roots
deep into the ground.
Like a birch tree 
the last to give up.

For five more years,
we shared ordinary days.
Laughing one moment,
arguing the next about 
the right way
to cook this or that.

Those became precious.

Then, another battle came,
for your lungs.
I thought — I knew the ending.
We prayed and believed,
that you'd eat:
boiled fish and burro plantain.
Again.

Months passed,
you barely ate.
Anything but protein shakes.
Still, I had even more hope.

I knew God would
come through eventually 
and give you new lungs.

But I was wrong.
That was your last gasp.
That Sunday —
the last time you said... my name.

I came back from host serving,
turned my keys inside the lock,
cracked the kitchen door open.
And somehow,
you sensed it was me stepping in.

You said:
“Lynnohh,
chanje moumou mwen an, sil vou plè.”

So I dressed you into
the only nightgown I could find 
the white one
that had all the buttons.

Right before I left for 6pm,
you whispered to my ears
something loving “...”
I’ll keep that private.

Still, I wonder sometimes:
why did God let you suffer for 7 months?
If it wasn't for the win.
Healing.

Why did You, God 
let her win the other battle
and not that one?

But the strange thing is 
I never wondered once
if You was good.

Because that would mean
blaming You for letting her go,
and forgetting all the ways You let me stay.

I couldn’t pick and choose
which sides of You felt
safe enough to keep:

To love the part of You that heals 
and reject the part that doesn’t.

It had to be
either
the whole package
or nothing at all.

My prayer for her life had
gone unanswered.
At least in the way
I expected it to.

But in reality,
was I unfortunate?

I think not.

Knowing you taught me more
than I could fathom,
because you showed that real love
means action + sacrifice.

I wanted you to see me
finish uni
cause you kept reminding me
that I matter.

You'd say:
"Lynn, don’t fall asleep on that yoga mat
with that laptop thing again!

Tomorrow, you can pick up right
where you left off."

And — even if,
I still can't understand
the timing.
A life surrendered was yours.

And maybe
just maybe...
that was the whole point.

Because purpose isn’t always the absence of pain.
But sometimes,
the preparation for eternity.

Not just to get your lungs back
in this present reality,
but to get your kids,
then grandkids to meet Him.

Oh no — it wasn’t about
breathing again.
It was all about
living well.
That was enough.

You did your assignment
and it got graded.
Your crown must have been
waiting long in heaven.

You left us better than
how you found us.
And honestly,
how could I be unfortunate to feel
grief losing you?

Wouldn't that also mean
I never knew nor loved you?

To hurt,
to remember,
to laugh while memories dance in my brain
just means... we had a well-loved relationship.

No one
will ever say... my name
with the same ca-den-ce:
Grandma.

It won’t ever sit well with me
remembering the nights
you couldn't sleep
because of pain.

Hearing the echo of your voice
panting for breath,
while I slept on the sofa chair
next to your bed...
with one eye awake.

But one year later,
I’ve chosen to still believe 
Jesus carried the pain with you
when I couldn’t.
He loves you more than I
ever could.

Your purpose here — on this side of eternity
came to fruition.
That’s why we had to say goodbye.

At least for now...

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Heart Call

Losing someone means they left a gap behind. That can either strengthen your faith
or make you distance yourself from God. But who are we to understand an
infinite mind with our human finite mind?

• Did you lose someone that you loved dearly?

• What would it look like to still miss them—and hold on to hope that God was there with them, even in the painful moments?

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