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.
Maybe 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 scorching 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.


So I thought
I knew the ending already.
We prayed and believed,
you'd eat boiled fish and burro plantain.
Again.


As you fought for breath each night,
I was never scared.
I knew God would come through —
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 duties,
turned my keys in the lock,
cracked the kitchen door open.


And somehow, you sensed —
it was me walking in.
I heard you say: “Lynnohh..”
You asked me to change your moumou
before I left,
and you told me something loving “...”
I’ll keep that private.


Still, I wonder sometimes:
Why did God let you suffer in so much pain?
If it wasn't for the win.
Healing.


Why did He let you win the other battle
and not that one?


But the strange thing is —
I never wondered once
if God is good or real.


My prayer for your life had gone unanswered.
At least in the way I expected it to.
But in reality,
was I fortunate or 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 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 us an anchored life —
your children and grandkids to meet Him.


It meant your assignment
in this life was done.
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 cadence:
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.


But I’ve chosen to still believe —
one year later, that your death
was never in vain.


And that Jesus, your friend,
loves you more than I ever could.
That I was fortunate to have shared
12 beautiful years in the same house
with you.


Your purpose here on this side
of eternity was completed.
That’s why we had to say goodbye.

At least for now...

---

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?

---