Cindy’s Story
Imposter! Who are you? Can anyone get a read on the real me, a full sense of my whole personality? Because I am the composition of a million little stories comprised of my parents. My mother served as the main character in twenty-nine chapters of my life before her unexpected stroke led to her death. Who was I supposed to become without her? God had taken my best friend, my biggest fan, my daily phone call, my security, my mom.
Gazing at my mother lifeless in her casket, I assume most consider this the biggest hurdle of grief. For me, it was not. Attempting a new routine, a life absent of my mother haunted me long after the funeral.
In the aftermath, I also held visions of poinsettias sitting in a zigzag pattern, on the floor, near her casket. Losing her right before Christmas with gifts already purchased caused an ache for future holidays. The sight of poinsettias, certain Christmas carols, even the color triggered me.
At night, my mother, in her purple church dress with a white lace collar, was lying motionless as the song, I’ll Fly Away, played over and over in my head. I could not tell anyone how crazy I felt. Watching, as silence fell all around me into a mound of dirt, floral bouquets, and ten-million questions unanswered because she left this earth.
I saw life in terms of before and after the event—grief organizing a timeline—indexing, measuring and marking the contents of time with dog-eared pages. At year ten, I agreed to let go of the chocolate Santa hidden in the back of my freezer. Remembering this simple gift, the last one she ever bought me. Standing by her grave, at year eighteen, I said goodbye to my father, orphaned, at forty-seven.
For a while, I jotted down raw anger inside journals. Dear Mom or Dear Dad, letters with daily storytelling took over. Writing humorous family memories satisfied some of my emotional pain. Some days, I strung words together into poetry.
I longed to find an outlet to release the hurts with others. Grief rendered me silent. Only on paper would I open up. Too bitter or too shy to talk with people out loud? So, I wrote and wrote.
One day, I found a little miracle. An object, once belonging to my mother, tucked away for eighteen years, made a reappearance. This found gem granted me just enough courage to try. I knew I had to make an effort to share my experiences with others.
Knowing my mother overcome a life of childhood abuse, but she learned how to show love and give it freely to her child. She chose to live by faith even when the world decided to be unkind. Her life had meaning, her story a purpose. At her funeral, no one could have written or spoken a eulogy worthy of her. Grief can hold a heart hostage. Maybe this is anger or fear—not speaking up, or out, afraid of moving on. What does life look like without a mother to fall back on for support?
It took a while, but I realized words from my heart trumped perfection, so I composed my first tribute book, Eulogies Unspoken: Stories of Worth. Soon after, I penned the story of the years following my mother's death: Caring for Dad: With Love and Tomatoes.
I reached out to a grief center, offering to volunteer. As a group facilitator, this led to the development of a new project. I felt led to write again. A novel written primarily for motherless teens Love at the Center of Grief.
Regardless of age, when we lose our mother, the toll makes us mourn like children with no set timeline, or right way to grieve. I remind myself how lucky I am; I had a mother worthy of being missed. When overwhelming thoughts come, I ask myself, how can I honor her life? Who can I help today? Like journaling, helping others, and volunteering had a profound healing effect.
Over the years, I have started calling grief my memory keeper—and we have an ever-evolving friendship.
Angry Grief , by Cindy McIntyre
Ghost of myself; a hollowed-out shell. God awful gnawing—
Gnawing filled with gut-wrenching grudges, plus lumpy guilt.
Guilt remembering moments missed I might have spent with you.
You performed as my biggest supporter. I can still recall—
Recall all those moments of my life. Now, I am left imagining.
Imagining you in Heaven; imagining your talks; your songs, your voice.
Voice spilling over with lyrics and the promises of eternal life with your God.
God, who snatched you away from my life. Erratic strife!
Strife, since you are in Heaven, as I am stuck inside internal Hell.
Hell can be a place here on earth. Survival mode, just a lost little girl,
faithless…
Faithless, as I am only an orphan, who is homesick, lost, and alone.
Alone and begging your God to guide me. Floundering and flustered!
Flustered and soul searching, I seek, from your God, some peace.
Peace from the tormenting torture.
And then, O righteous God!
God with whom you dwell. I feel your spirit of hope surrounding me.
Me, suffering in silence as cutthroat cruelty chases me. Falling and kneeling.
Kneeling in anger, but hopeful in prayer. Eroding faith, please rebuild!
“Rebuild my heart, Dear God,” is my prayer to heal.
Across the Bridge, by Cindy McIntyre, inspired by a dream
Across the bridge, will you wait for me?
Through grief’s tears and fog, I cannot see.
I’m too scared to let Dad go!
He still needs my hand to hold.
Mama, can you still sing for me?
“Across the bridge, there’s no more sorrow…”
Please ask God to grant me another tomorrow!
Remind me! Remind me! Remind me!
About those visions, you both can see.
Mama, I want to believe!
Tell me again of the streets of gold,
flower petals adorning.
My soul has grown weary from years
and years of mourning.
Why is this bridge just crumbling apart?
Must he go? Each step breaks my heart!
“Daughter, it is you who must fly away.
Your father and I are with God to stay.
God’s not through blessing your life.
Pray to Him with your anger and strife.
This decrepit bridge is only a façade.
This is a hidden Heaven, an act of God.”
Mama, can you still sing to me?
“Across the bridge, there’s no more pain…
Daughter, I promise you, fog lifts after rain.
Yes, across the bridge, we will be.
Awaiting to show you God’s eternity.”
God’s Plan by Cindy McIntyre
Poinsettias emphasize
year after year
Remembrance Day:
Mother and God
stopped speaking
and listening to me.
I begged God,
“Let her live.”
God’s plan
defied mine.
For Christmas:
A lavender casket,
purple church dress,
poinsettias, I’ll Fly Away…
I begged God,
“Let me die.”
God’s plan
defied mine.
For Christmas:
poinsettias bloomed
year after year
life–death–cycled on
I begged God,
“Let me live.”
God’s plan
complied.
A tiny angel He sent
holding guided messages
upon golden feathers…
She spoke. He listened.
Cindy McIntyre is an at-risk teacher of twenty years, author of three books on Amazon, and a grief volunteer.
