Today marks three years since the worst day of my life. The day my mother died.

Losing my mom felt like an unraveling of my world and all I knew to be true. I lost my center, my best friend, my counselor, my identity. I lost history and holidays and comfort on a hard day. I lost my home, my ministry, my independence, and the ability to sing. I lost peace, happiness, and long chats about books we were reading.

That cloudy April day sent irreparable cracks throughout my being and the days to follow completed the shattering. I wished with all of my broken heart that Jesus would take me too. The fact that I kept breathing after she had stopped seemed the height of cruelty. I felt God had ripped her out of a life she loved and wanted and jammed me into the ragged hole she had left behind. Her home, her car, her husband…now all my responsibility. A life I didn’t want in a location I hated with constant reminders of her all around me…symbols of all her patience, wisdom, kindness, and love that I did not possess.

I felt undone, angry, lost, and alone. I felt as if I was suffocating and trapped—my life and dreams buried with the one person I loved more than anyone on earth.

Three years have gone by now. 1,095 days of inhaling and exhaling and relearning how to live. Through it all God has been so kind. He has sent friends to encourage and has provided opportunities for healing and growth. He has given me a new ministry—the very one I had been dreaming of for years. I still terribly miss singing with a community choir, but He has allowed me enough voice to sing along with the congregation on Sunday mornings again…most of the time. I still have days where the tears drown out the notes, but not every week like it was. I’m not the same person, but “shattered” no longer applies.

I think of the art of Kintsugi—an ancient Japanese form of repairing broken pottery with gold, making it stronger and more beautiful than the original. Jeremiah 18 talks of God as the Potter and His people as the clay. Instead of throwing away the broken bits ruined by death, he gently places each shard back into the whole, creating new life, new usefulness, and new beauty.

I still struggle as I sit at Mom’s table and eat dinner in the very spot where she left us all behind to live with Jesus. I still long for my home to reflect my taste and my memories, to establish new holiday traditions and winters without snow. In so many ways, I feel like my life is not my own, but then, has it ever been? In a way, this disjointed existence is a gift—a daily reminder that this world is not my home, I’m just passing through. And on my way, I have the privilege of serving people like my dad, my coworkers, and our clients. I have an opportunity to point them to Jesus, our Potter, our Healer, our Savior, and my dear Friend.

It’s not the life I would have chosen for myself, but now, after 36 months of living it, I can attest that God truly does bring beauty out of ashes and He is making all things new. Nothing will ever fully be right in this life. Our Enemy has seen to that. There will always be pain this side of Heaven, but pain is not the enemy. We avoid it like it is, but pain is just an indicator—a throbbing signal that something good, someone good has been taken from our lives.

But the pain also means that they aren’t really gone. They are with us in our tears and our wishing we could share this or that happy moment with them. They are in our dreams and memories and sometimes even looking back at us in the mirror. And they are part of that Heavenly cloud of witnesses cheering us on from the pearly gates, anxious to hug our necks and welcome us when we finally do make it Home.

So while it’s been three years since the worst day of my life, I have a feeling that some of the best days of my life are yet to come. I can’t wait to get to Heaven and tell Mom all about them.