I don’t think this is common knowledge, but I’m an orphan. Yep. No mom. No dad. Just me and my siblings, and a few family members who were brave enough to stay. My mother bowed out first. At age 36, she left the love of her life with three children and went to rest after battling a short illness. That was in 2010. That entire year is a blur, but I will never forget the day that they came to break the news. Her death numbed me. So, we were raised by my father, and you could tell that for someone with 12 offspring, he still did not have a cooking clue on how to rear his progeny. Nonetheless, let me not discredit him: he did his very best and some. Then in 2020, the very first love of my life became a mortality statistic of uncontrolled diabetes. His death destroyed me, and I still remain a shell of myself.
I am prefacing this entire blog for context because this piece is NOT about my parents at all. They will have their separate installations. This piece is for all my friends, and acquaintances. Why? Well, whenever I disclose this part of my life to people, the reactions are hilarious at best and ridiculous at worst. The part that I find ridiculous is the treatment that follows so here are 7 unproved, yet anecdotally tested statements about orphans and how to interact with them. By the way, this is in no shape or form exhaustive or prescriptive, so take it with a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of humour:
1. Do not pity us: this is the most important one. I cannot fully articulate how much it irks me when people pity me. It could be a fruit of pride on my side, but I interpret it as dehumanizing. Yes, my parents are dead, but that’s pretty much it. I am still the same Mosa you have come to know and like.
2. Some days are more difficult than others — do not invalidate our grief: I often isolate myself on the difficult days such as birthdays (mine included), Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. This is because I have realized that society sucks at sitting through perpetual and recurring grief with those who are mourning. I appreciate all of my friends who have never invalidated my experience and even bigger appreciation to those who have braved the awkward vigils I have on those particular days. So, to those whose friends do not have one or both parents, be ready to relive the pain with them at odd times. It is just what it is.
3. We are allowed to not look like our situations: I remember the day I told one of my friends, he downright said ‘but you don’t look like it’, and I had to hold myself from laughing. For the life of me, that did not make sense. All I’ll say is, don’t do that. Just don’t.
4. It is okay to not know what to say — we are also rendered speechless by the loss: there is no need to fill the silence with pious platitudes or empty reassurances. The pain is too deep for words and do not think that your lip service will remedy it. Be okay with not knowing what to do. In fact, we appreciate naivety because believe it or not, we also don’t know how we keep moving forward.
5. Try to not be offended by our dark humour: I always make jokes about my parents’ death and sometimes, my friends will be offended. Remember that laughter is the best medicine, and though I said nothing can completely cure the pain, the humour provides symptomatic relief. In all honesty, I have come to realize that if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll cry about it.
6. Feel free to ask questions: I will never forget a 3-hour call I once had with a friend where she felt liberated to ask questions. I think it brought us closer and she got an idea on how to best be there for me. As I said, this is a pain that will never go away — I believe — so to have people who are willing to learn about it with you is a grace that I will never take for granted. Allow yourself to ask all the weird and wonderful questions — it helps.
7. Do call us out when we use our grief as a crutch: This one might offend those who are mourning, but 13 years without a mother and 3 years without a father has taught me that we sometimes hide behind our scars. Yes, the pain is there and yes, our loved ones are not. However, that doesn’t make it alright to hurt others and use loss to justify abuse. We are all healing from various degrees of loss so let’s show kindness both ways.
Now that I have exhausted my unsolicited advice, I will conclude by saying this: grief is a form of suffering that some people are introduced to while in their formative years, and for my Bible-believing readers — suffering is not a swear word. There is a glory in suffering as the scriptures so declare (see 2 Corinthians 4 as one example). Please ponder on that before reprimanding my vulnerability and accusing me of not having hope. I do have hope. I am simply not oblivious to my reality. I will always have a hole in my life. That’s just my Jacob’s limp. Furthermore, though I said I am an orphan, I do not associate myself with its connotations because my God fathers the fatherless. I am not without a parent when my Father calls me His daughter. I have reckoned with the purpose and reality of my suffering because more than sobering me to the inevitability of death, it also drew me to the life-giving power of Christ and the joy-giving presence of God. I gave unproved advice, but I stand on the unchanging truth. I am not an orphan. I am a child of God.
