When Bereavement Hits Home

Dignity and compassion should never depend on status

My mother died on Thursday, March 26, at 2:30 p.m. She was 94 years old. For the past four months, she endured nonstop, excruciating pain. Watching someone you love suffer like that changes you. It prepares you for the inevitability of death—but it does not prepare you for the weight of it.

My mother had a youthful presence that defied her age. People often assumed we were siblings. And when she entered a room, she carried herself with such confidence and grace that people wondered what celebrity had just arrived. She had that kind of light.

One might think that losing a mother at 94—after a long illness—would be easier to bear than losing a father at 47, as I did when I was 24 years old. But grief does not follow logic. It follows meaning.

When my father died, it marked the beginning of something for me. As the oldest of three children, I stepped immediately into a new role. There were decisions to make, responsibilities to assume, arrangements to organize. His death was sudden and unexpected, and I did not have the luxury of grieving in real time. I became the leader of the family overnight. I went into what I can only describe as “project management mode.”

But when my mother died, I realized something very different.

Her passing marked an end.

I had my mother for three times as long as I had my father. For 51 years, I was not just her son—I was her support, her advocate, her covering. Being there for her was not a burden; it was an honor. But it was also a role that shaped my identity in ways I did not fully appreciate until it was gone.

So this grief feels deeper. Not because I loved her more—but because her life was so intertwined with mine for so long. Her death closes a chapter that defined me for more than half a century.

This experience has also affirmed something that guided my pastoral ministry for many years. When I served as pastor, bereavement was always my highest priority. Our leaders knew that when a family lost a loved one, everything else took a back seat.

I have sat with grieving families as they tried to make sense of loss. I have helped plan homegoing services in the midst of shock and sorrow. I have made sure families were fed, comforted, and cared for. I have stepped into moments of tension and disagreement, knowing that grief can surface both love and conflict at the same time.

Because I understood—even then—that this is the most vulnerable moment in a family’s life. And how a church responds in that moment can shape how that family—and even the broader community—feels about that church and even God, forever. It was never about differentiating between members and non-members. It was all about a compassionate ministry.

Now, I find myself on the other side of that experience.

My mother was incredibly proud of me. Even in the hospital, she would ask caregivers, “Do you know who my son is? Did you know he was Secretary of State? Do you know he serves on the board of this hospital?”

She wasn’t just expressing pride—she was advocating for herself. She understood something deeply practical: that status can influence how people are treated. And as her son, I understood something just as important—that dignity and compassion should never depend on status.

That conviction shaped my ministry. I worked hard to ensure that every family—regardless of who they were—was treated with care, respect, and love.

Now, as I grieve my own mother, I feel the full weight of what those families experienced. Not from the pulpit, but from the pew.

And if I am remembered for anything in my years as a pastor, I hope it is this:

That I served grieving families well.