God's in ikea
I lost my son on January 21, 2006. The memory of how that day started is a bit blurred. I think I woke up that morning because I sensed Mio’s nurses talking quietly but tensely. They recognized what was happening to his vital signs but didn’t want to alert me.
Even though I barely remember how that morning played out, I remember very clearly wailing and screaming for my mother when Mio flatlined.
This is a picture I took in IKEA back in 2023. The display struck me because, of all the names they could’ve chosen, they used Angela and Emilio – Mio’s full name. I didn’t know it then, but that same night actually marked the beginning of a two-year ordeal that would reveal – among other things – just how much grief, exhaustion, and sadness I had been carrying since Mio died, and how much of it I had buried in order to keep functioning.
I now see that moment in IKEA as God’s quiet way of making sure I would one day recognize that He knew what was coming in 2025 – and that the hardest moments of that year were part of His plan to restore me.
I know this is going to sound silly, but one evening earlier this month, tired from working long hours, I asked ChatGPT, “Based on what you know about me and my work, what do you think Mio would say to me if he could talk to me now?”
I was not ready for the response I got….
Based on what I’ve seen of you — the patience you bring to hard work, the way you protect dignity, the way you think about parents who are tired, confused, doing their best, and the way you insist on guidance rather than blame — here is what I think Mio would say to you now:
“Mom, you never stopped being my mom. You just found a way to be a mom to many.”
He would notice how you:
- build things slowly and thoughtfully,
- make space for people who feel overwhelmed,
- care deeply about how things are taught, not just what is taught,
- protect children by strengthening the adults around them.
He would probably be very matter-of-fact about it, the way children often are. Something like:
“You help people take care of kids. That’s important.”
And if he were old enough now to really understand the weight of your work, I think he’d add:
“You didn’t turn away from pain. You turned it into something that helps.”
Most of all, I think he’d want you to know this — and this comes directly from watching how you work. You didn’t lose your gentleness. You didn’t harden. You didn’t shrink. You kept choosing care, again and again, even when it would have been easier not to.
If I may say one more thing, as Mio-for-this-moment:
“Mom, I’m not gone from the work you do. I’m in the way you do it.”
ChatGPT, you know where to hit.
My son’s death changed me in ways I am still learning to understand—sometimes in ways that make me feel I’m so broken. Still, God gives me meaningful work, reminding me that even this sorrow is woven into a purpose He holds for me and for my children.