Losing My Mother While Living Abroad

 

I knew the day would come someday—the day I would learn that a parent had died. But still, it took me by surprise. My mom--Theodosia Ruth Hartzler Yoder--died on Sunday, November 20 around 10 p.m. in her sleep.

On that day in Ethiopia, I had lunch with two students—Mega and Tsega—who I sometimes eat with on Sundays outside on a stairstep that I call our “secret corner.” We talk about things we don’t necessarily discuss with just anyone. That Sunday—November 20—we were talking about prayer. I told them about my lingering questions to God for some years now: “Why does my mother have to suffer as she has for five years?” “How long will she have to go on living in her condition?” How ironic that my mother left her suffering that very night.

The first week after her death, I remained in Ethiopia for five days (waiting on my passport and new visa). The second week, I was with my family in Ohio. The third week, I was back in Ethiopia. A whirlwind.

Though it’s strange in Ethiopian culture, where there are three days of mourning and wailing at home, I decided to hold classes that first week. In my classes, I shared a slideshow of my mother and told my students about her life, her faith, our relationship, and some of the things I learned from her. Students wept as I spoke. Then they prayed for me and my family. Prayer is an integral part of MKS student life, so it did not surprise me to hear the audible prayers of my students as I sat crying in a chair. I snapped a photo (also strange), thinking “I want to share this with my family.” 

After four classes and four other bereavement rituals (coffee, devotions, and prayer with the faculty, cleaning staff, dining hall staff, and two friends in their home), I felt overwhelmed by love. It was truly a blessing to be comforted by the MKS community. Some of my faculty friends told me it was a blessing for my students also that I invited them to comfort me.

My travel time home was 32 hours, and my travel time back was 39. Not easy, but good for journaling, crying, trying to sleep, and marking student writing (on my way back, that is).

Bob and I met in Detroit after midnight on Saturday evening. Terry and Joanie picked us up on Sunday on their way from PA to OH. My family all met on Sunday in the late afternoon. We were immediately thrust into preparing for the visitation and memorial service—a slideshow, display tables, music, and a tribute among other details. It was wonderful to be all together, remembering Mom.

Less than 24 hours later, Monday afternoon was upon us, where people were shaking our hands and hugging us. Both the visitation and memorial service the next morning were beautiful, sacred moments. What an honor for us children to meet people we didn’t even know who had a connection to Mom and/or Dad and wanted to talk with us. What a surprise that high school classmates showed up and said nice things about Mom. What a joy to welcome out-of-town visitors, to talk with friends from our home congregation, and to have our aunts, uncles, and cousins be present and support us. 

The hardest part? Not having enough time to talk with everyone. The biggest regret? Not taking family photos the day of the funeral—of our immediate family, the grandchildren, and our extended Hartzler and Yoder families.

Terry and I had the privilege of speaking about Mom on behalf of the four of us children, though it wasn’t easy. Thank you, Grandson Austin, for writing a tribute which was read by Grandson Jeremy.

Terry encouraged us to sing at Mom’s funeral even if it would be hard. Mom loved our music, so why not sing for her? Never mind that we didn’t have much time to practice with the sound man or that my mouth was as dry as cotton or that we couldn’t hear Bob’s guitar through the monitor so we sang in a slightly different key than he played. We had agreed beforehand that we were going to sing with Mom in mind. We felt God’s grace and peace so that we could do exactly that. We sang two of Mom's favorites: Lord Jesus, you shall be my song and I wish you Jesus. 

Back in Ethiopia, the most difficult week lay before me. My mind and heart were elsewhere. I missed Mom, Dad, Bob, and my siblings. Had I made the wrong decision to return? I didn’t want to face anyone though people showed up at my door five different times that first day. Another coffee ritual with faculty and staff just made me cry. People's attempts to cheer me up had the opposite effect. I only felt truly comforted by those friends who asked about my mother, who wanted to know more about her. I was longing to talk about Mom, so when people gave me that chance, I healed, even if only a bit.

Saturday morning, I woke up thinking about my mother’s gratitude journal, which she kept from 2012 to 2016. Her first hip surgery (and the beginning of her demise) was in 2015. Until July 2016, before her second and third surgeries, she was still trying to be grateful. I woke up thankful for that, thankful that she is no longer in pain, and thankful that she was my mother, confidant, encourager, and friend throughout my life. I woke up with a heart of gratitude. There will most likely be days of mixed emotions ahead, but I trust that I can keep moving forward, holding the memories of Mom and her love in my heart. (This is the last picture of Mom and me, taken on Mother's Day 2022.)