Once upon a time, there lived a relatively happy family. They were a solemn family, where sorrow was ever before their doorstep, but happiness loomed at their threshold as well.

Their smiles were bright and welcoming, their tidings were of joy and compassion. They danced among a community of happy faces, committed to the cause of goodness and grace. Though they lived many states apart, they upheld that solemn unity that family and trauma require.

The mother, yes, she was the shining star. She was the jewel of the community, welcoming the shiny happy people — celebrated for her friendliness and hospitality, honored for her good nature. A shepherd to her community, a shepherd to her family. She boasted of her beloved family — children, the apples of her eyes, and her one beloved, her friend.

But, like all beautiful things, she died.

And what of her community? This shepherd did not pastor alone. No, she had several who could have looked after her flock. Only, they didn’t.

Her family was left to grovel, abandoned by the community that celebrated their wife and mother. Shunned by those whom called her a “co-laborer in Christ” and a friend. Exiled by the very community that spoke of her love and beauty at her funeral. Her family was judged and rejected, abandoned but not forgotten.

They thought of — and prayed for, of course — her family, they said, when five or six months passed and they finally decided to check in.

Five or six months of silence, of gossip, of abandonment from the very place their wife and mother once shined. She was the woman who really “saw” people, and they couldn’t see her survivors.

I’m sick of the veiled statements and the cryptic messages: I’m disappointed and hurt by how much my mother’s pastoral staff didn’t show up for us — after all she gave to them. She gave them her life, and they repaid her by shunning her family after her death.

But, as they read this, they’ll say “See! She’s angry at us,” and not “oh, we’ve hurt her.” It’s always the sufferer who must snuff her feelings, protecting the egos of those who did the hurting. Those who inflicted pain seldom care to take ownership of their wrongs, choosing rather to call the wounded impaired.

I’m sick of the injustice of it all, I’m sick of the gossip. I’m sick of the people who got my mother’s police report, made copies of it, and mailed and/or texted it out to people who had no right to her private information. I’m sickened by the people who continue to share it, choosing not to protect my mother nor my family from harm. I’m sick of being afraid to leave my house and wonder if somebody’s going to ask me about — someone I don’t know, saying things she would never tell them, looking to exploit answers from me. I’m sick of feeling so powerless, so voiceless, against those who have hurt and who keep hurting me and my family.

There were people who blamed my mom for my brother’s death, and those same people blame my family for her death. They were vile to her, sending nasty letters and saying wicked things.

They whisper and they lie, they spread misinformation in hopes of isolating us from our community. And guess what? It worked. Shunned. Isolated. Abandoned. All in the name of Jesus.

Jesus wouldn’t do that.

But don’t worry, they “pray for” us everyday.