Loss & Life After

May 30, 2025

If I’m being honest, after my mom passed, I found myself quietly wondering if there really is life after death. My heart and spirit wanted to believe what I had always known deep down—but my mind had questions. Is Mom really in Heaven? What if there’s no heaven, no afterlife at all? These thoughts stirred in me for days.

When I finally arrived at my parents’ apartment at the Mt. Airy High Rise in St. Paul, the silence hit differently. The space felt hollow without Mom’s familiar energy. She had left everything behind—her clothes, her accessories, stacks of cassette tapes, walkmans and radios, the paj ntaub she spent countless hours stitching. Her medicine was still on the shelf. Her presence lingered in the air, but her absence filled the room.

My parents were hoarders, in the most endearing way. In every home we lived in, they held onto extra pots and pans, old containers, trinkets—anything they thought might be useful someday. But when they finally got their own apartment, they had to choose what to bring with them. Space was limited, so what they kept was what mattered most.

My parents came from humble beginnings—village life in Laos and Thailand. They lived in huts. They came to the United States with almost nothing but each other, their sons, Kou and Nhia, and the strength of extended family. And still, they gave us everything they could.

Mom used to remind us gently: not to desire too much of the material things in this world—because we can’t take any of it with us. That lesson feels different now.

When my father-in-law passed, my husband helped his mom sort through his belongings. That process, though necessary, was tender and heavy. So the day after Mom passed, as I prepared to fly to Minnesota, Fugie gently reminded me that everything in the apartment now belonged to Dad. Even the things that were hers. Be gentle, he said. Be considerate of his space, his grief.

When I arrived, I felt no urgency to touch anything. I didn’t want to sort or clean or organize. I just wanted to be there. To sit in the sacred stillness, to breathe in what was left of Mom’s fragrance, and to hold space with my dad. I didn’t want to disturb the quiet, or his peace.

So instead, I spent time with him. I hung out with my sister. We ran errands, filled the silence with everyday things. Because even at the end of a loved one’s life, there’s business to attend to—funeral arrangements, important conversations, decisions that can't be avoided. And in all of it, there’s an aching need for grace.

After someone we love leaves this earth, life doesn’t pause. The world keeps turning. Possessions are sorted, designated, donated. The physical remnants fade into the background. But what remains—what truly lasts—is the spirit they carried and the legacy they left behind.

The Bible tells us that those who remain faithful, who cling to Christ, will receive the crown of life. My mother held onto Jesus with all she had. I believe in God’s promises. And the older I get, the more I understand why parents, especially those who’ve known loss and sacrifice, say their greatest hope is simply for their children to know and love Christ.

Because in the end, everything else fades. But love—especially the kind rooted in faith—remains.

“Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you life as your victor’s crown.”

—Revelation 2:10 (NIV)