Life is painfully beautiful

A dumpster in front of one. A moving truck in front of another.

One day I’m throwing things into an unsightly orange dumpster at my Mom’s home and the next, helping our daughter’s family move belongings into their brand new home. Which by the way, we are over-the-moon excited they now live closer!

One home filled with warm, familiar scents of childhood. The other, fresh paint aroma fills the air with an unmistakable sense of newness.

One home with worn carpet and scuffed walls. The other, floors and banisters covered with care to keep them pristine and unblemished.

One home has flowers lovingly planted in window boxes in memory of a loved one, the other, flowers haven’t even had time to sprout.

Cherished memories created in one home are now forever and safely tucked in the hearts of many. New memories eagerly waiting to be formed in the other.

My Mom passed away suddenly in March this year. It was devastating to say the least. It was her second, silent heart attack. Unfortunately this one was fatal. We never saw it coming.

After leaving the hospital that day without her and going back to her home, I thought for sure she’d just walk through the door, smile, and pick up living where she left off. It sure looked and felt that way. Mail tossed on the counter, taxes being prepared, books half read with bookmarks peeking out, clothes in the washer, food in the fridge, and her pill box beeping, on cue, at 5pm alerting her it was time for her medicine. She had so much living left to do and boatloads of love to give. Until she didn’t. Her precious life was over. Mine was changed forever.

Both parents now gone. Parents who loved us so very big, gave us a beautiful life, and cheered us on every step of the way.

Grief sucks.

Sadly, my friend, I’m sure you know this gut-wrenching truth too.

The poetic irony of clearing out one home and filling another, within days of each other, settles deep in my soul. Grief and joy coexisting. Unlikely roommates forced to share space in my heart.

It was the only childhood home I knew. My parents lived there for over 60 years. That’s pretty much unheard of these days. My Mom, Dad, brother and I shared countless smiles, laughs, and silly times in that house along with a spattering of sadness that life inevitably brings. That’s simply what’s called “doing life together.”

I could write pages upon pages of the sacred and exceptional memories we had there. Once I got married, had kids, and they became grandparents, the beautiful memories kept piling on like warm blankets right out of the dryer. Cozy and comfortable as I desperately clung to the familiar warmth it provided.

I continue to grieve both parents. They were amazing and I miss them dearly. But I also continue to live. I’m positive my Mom and Dad would want it that way.

I heard an analogy about grief. Bear with me as I summarize it.

Grief is like a rock in your pocket. At first, it’s all you can think of. It’s heavy, it’s awkward, it’s cumbersome, and all consuming. Its painful presence is relentless and constant. Especially in the wee hours of the night.

But ever so gradually, you begin to sense the rock less. Oh it’s still there, and always will be, but you cautiously start to accept its presence. You don’t want to but you have to. A new normal is settling in, with or without your permission. The rock is still awkward and unwanted at the most unexpected moments, but perhaps not as much anymore. It doesn’t dominate every thought. Over time, it may even feel slightly smaller in your pocket.

You’re learning to live with the rock. The house guest you never asked for who unexpectedly shows up on your doorstep. And won’t leave.

The rock is now part of your story. Part of who you are.

My faith is of paramount importance to me. I believe in a risen Savior, Jesus Christ, and a God who provides comfort, peace, love, and healing. He never leaves my side. Ever. My faith is the driving force of my life in good times, in bad, and in times of waiting. It’s part of me. He’s part of me. God is faithful in His love and promises. Because of that I know my Mom’s eternity is secure and I will continue to heal. I trust He will gently and lovingly repair my shattered heart.

Yes, it still hurts. Some days much more excruciating than others. I went to a cardiologist the week she passed because the physical pain of grief was too much. It felt like an elephant took up residence on my chest. I was fine, it was “just” a broken heart.

Honestly, it was a weird feeling to experience what was transpiring at my Mom’s home versus our daughter’s. Deafening silence, eerily empty, sweet memories recalled, and deeply sad at my Mom’s. But emotions bubbling over with joy, anticipation, and excitement at our daughter’s.

It was strange, but so normal.

When life ends, it’s sad. When it begins, it’s happy.

I had my time to cultivate memories in my childhood home, to be part of a loving family, and to share so many precious years with those I absolutely adored. And now, as life thrusts me forward, it’s someone else’s turn. Whether it’s the adorable young couple who purchased my Mom’s home, or it’s our daughter’s, the circle of life is abundantly clear. New memories eager be written on the pages of their life story now.

As we rise from the crushing weight of grief, we cautiously and hesitantly, open the door to transformation. We notice we’re a little stronger, more resilient, more patient, and our sense of gratitude increases for the things that once were and things to come. Priorities are re-evaluated, memories are shared with laughter and tears, family is appreciated even more, and dare I say, a sense of calmness and peace overcomes our soul. Our tears are gradually replaced with soft, grateful smiles. It means we’re healing and giving ourselves permission to do so. We can be sad they’re gone, of course, but let’s also choose to smile because they lived. It’s a blessing and honor to have loved them and be loved by them. We will now, with dignity and grace, carry on their legacy.

Memories shared with those we love and do life with are incredibly powerful. And just like the rock, they’ll never leave. But unlike the rock, they are welcome to take up sacred space in our pockets. And in our hearts.

Life is painfully beautiful. And for that, I’m grateful.