At least they’ll be together.
That’s the one thought that doesn’t tear me open completely.
Dad.
Grandad.
And soon, Gran.
But there’s something she said once that sits in my throat like a thorn—sharp every time I breathe around it.
They were always devout.
Gran and Grandad—church, prayer, faith stitched into the rhythm of their lives. My uncle even more so. Zealous. Certain. The kind of belief that explains everything because it never allows itself to doubt.
He’s sixty-five now.
Being spoon-fed.
His mind taken by Alzheimer’s—far too young. Alive, but already gone.
We never saw eye to eye. And when Dad lay dying—when I was holding his hand, measuring meds, watching cancer hollow him out—my uncle told me it was God’s will.
That sentence never left me.
But one day—not so long ago—Gran turned to me quietly and said:
“Sam, I don’t want to go to church anymore. God keeps taking my kids from me.”
And something split open.
Because what do you say to a mother who buried her youngest grandchild at eight—cerebral palsy stealing a life before it had chance to begin?
Who then lost her middle son—wrecked and ravaged by cancer?
Who then buried her husband, her constant, her other half?
Who now watches her eldest fade slowly into dementia, trapped in a body that keeps breathing while his mind disappears?
That’s not a test of faith.
That’s endurance.
And still—I think she finds comfort in her Lord. Not the loud faith of pews and sermons, but something quieter. Something private. A belief that sits beside her grief instead of trying to explain it away.
She didn’t stop believing because she was weak.
She stepped back because belief started hurting too much.
I don’t need heaven to know they belong together.
I don’t need prayer to honour what was taken.
I don’t need heaven to know they belong together.
I don’t need prayer to honour what was taken.
What I know is this: grief strips things back to bone.
And sometimes what’s left isn’t faith or fury—but a fierce, aching honesty.
If that makes me uncomfortable to listen to, so be it.
I’ll stand with the mothers who’ve lost too much.
And if there is a god—
he can answer to them first.