There is Motherlove for the Motherless

I lost my mom, not my need or ability to be mothered.

Seventeen years ago, the trill of a million cicadas greeted my sisters and me as we left the church where our mother raised us. They landed on our car and shouted above our grief as we followed the hearse down a long Virginia road. Each mile took us farther away from the life we knew. Each minute took us further from our own memory. My mother was a woman of faith and told us many times, “when you see me there in that casket, that’s not me. That’s just my shell. I’m with the Lord.” We chose to believe her. We…