A Light for My Path

Here’s the thing. No matter how long it’s been since you lost a child (or another loved one), the grief never completely goes away. You can receive peace from knowing God and that eternity awaits you. You can feel joy and hope in the blessings He has bestowed on you and those yet to come. You can bask in warm memories and look forward to future pleasures.

But you can’t avoid triggers. You can’t avoid the sneak attack on your heart that a picture or an event might bring.

I woke up in the wee hours this morning trying to hold back tears from a dream I had. I don’t even remember the exact nature of my dream, but something in it made me scared and sad.

Yesterday my youngest granddaughter FaceTimed me from her great-grandmother’s house in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. She talked about paddle-boarding in the Sound. About how they couldn’t play in the ocean because there were red flags posted. (She explained in great detail why there were red flags.) She showed me the goose-egg on her forehead and the scratch on her chin from bumping into the steps of the pool because she forgot to bring her goggles with her and had to swim with her eyes closed.

These video conversations are often long-winded and one-sided. And I cherish them because in another year or two they will be much less frequent.

After we said our goodbyes and our I love you mores, I started thinking about how much Rachel has missed in these eight years since she went to Heaven. That fledgling paddle-boarder was only 17 months old when Rachel died. She only “remembers” her from pictures and stories. Of Rachel’s six nieces and nephews, two of them just graduated from high school. One is going to Florida State and one to trade school. Rachel babysat them when they were toddlers, showed them how a record player works, built sand castles at the beach, and they made a toast together at her wedding when they were 10. The three grands in the middle have varying degrees of memories about their Aunt Rachel.

And it takes my breath away when I realize how much time has passed. Lots and lots of memories have been made. None of them with Rachel in them. I don’t know which triggers me more: old pictures with her or new pictures without her.

But here’s the thing. I can’t change any of it. Her being gone. The grandkids growing up. The pain in my back when I spend too much time pulling weeds. The pain in my heart when I spend too much time being nostalgic.

So, I come full circle back to what I can do. I can open my heart to little things like long-winded conversations and to big things like graduations. And I can open my heart to grief. Because here’s the thing. Grief is ultimately just another form of love. We grieve because we loved. And I don’t want to ever stop loving.

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Laura