In the death of a parent, there is a quiet rebirth most don’t speak of, yet many experience—whether we invite it or not.
It begins with the recovery of memories that busyness once buried, tucked away between growing up and settling down.
We recall the days that blurred into occasional gatherings, half-hearted conversations, fleeting thoughts.
At the time, we didn’t chastise ourselves too harshly for not reaching out; we told ourselves we would tomorrow.
Tomorrow arrives and slips away—until time stops for the parent.
And in that moment, in many ways, time stops for us too… even when we keep going; it’s all different, even if unnoticed by others (and ourselves).
There are no more memories to create together.
All we’ve shared is already shared.
All we said—and didn’t say—remains fixed.
This would be an unbearable cruelty without memories and hope.
Still, recollections arrive in waves and tidal waves of smiles and tears.
We tell ourselves we are okay, even when we don’t feel okay.
What we truly need is them, but that isn’t possible, so we remain thankful for the time we spent well together.
We collect ourselves and our memories and learn the art of carrying the best of them forward.
Yet memories are sneaky, unpredictable.
A fork in hand at a restaurant can summon long-ago dinner-table conversations.
A stranger’s handshake recalls Dad’s — firm and always with eye contact.
A flower blooming the color of cake batter transports us to Mom’s kitchen, where we licked the beaters clean.
Quiet nights bring prayers and peace—yet sometimes pain, too, as we yearn to share victories and disappointments with someone who no longer answers the phone.
We stare at photographs and hear their voice.
We stare longer and almost hear their advice… still.
Oh, time, where did you go?
We must trust the One who created time has also prepared eternity.
With each earthly death comes a birth into Heaven.
Even unbelievers often find themselves hoping Heaven is real after the death of a loved one.
Separation is temporary; love is eternal.
In this ever-present hope, tending memories is precious, but it is not where our focus should ultimately rest.
The cost of living is death, but honoring the Lord in the days we are gifted yields life eternal.
In this, we honor our parents most profoundly by honoring God.
I believe our love for Him reaches them, too.
This article is lovingly dedicated to the memory of
Jo Ann Scamardo
December 10, 1936 – March 1, 2026
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. For more inspirational articles, follow ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.
