Sandy Goodbyes...

The wind nipped at our noses, pulling at our hair. "Mom would have hated this" we joked. She loved the beach, but hated the cold, especially that last year. Logistics were discussed awkwardly...Do we say something? Where exactly do we "put her"? Dad, of course, said a few words with Lauren and I, while our husbands held on to the squirmy toddlers. We each held a Country Crock butter tupperware, containing small ziplock bags. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  

It was low tide, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. The ocean waves had pulled back, revealing small rivers of salty water, perfect for carrying our beloved Momma out to sea. Shells were collected to commemorate our time, and we stared at the vastness of the ocean, knowing that this was exactly what she wanted. 

This is still all so weird, so surreal. We are living our daily lives, but there's such a blatantly empty hole. The grief is still raw, still new. Fresh waves of tears continue to come, and most of the time I let it. Unless it's talking to the lady at Target. Then that's just awkward. 

Christmas decorations have been put up at Dad's place. Lauren did a great job, fumbling around Mom's bins, trying to figure out what works, what doesn't. A new tree was put up, a bit smaller, a bit shorter. Dad gave the boys the "don't touch the tree unless Grandad is around" talk. We'll see if they listen. The house is beautiful, but it still feels like it's missing something. I don't know how Mom did it-she had the gift of taking a few (ha!) holiday decorations and creating the most inviting and comforting Christmas home...warmth, laughter. She'd take me on a tour of the decorations, showing what was different each year, and "did you see what I did with it this time?". We're trying Mom. We really are.

Mom was the gift giver. She always made sure there was a special surprise under the tree, something we didn't even know we wanted. She loved to go over the Christmas lists with me..."Can you imagine Collin's face?...oh, This is perfect for Cameron!" Mom and I had the same love language-gifts. We love to give them, and love to receive them....Christmas morning will be weird this year.

I have realized that my grief is threefold. There are moments that I grieve my Mom. The one who gave me advice, or held me when I cried. The one who continuously told me how proud she was of me. Then there are days that I mourn the loss of my best friend. My shopping partner. My fellow game player. The one I could spend hours on the phone with, even though we had just seen each other. We got silly and giggly and loud, and Dad would just shake his head. I think though, on the hardest days, I grieve the loss of Grammy. From the moment Steve and I were married, Mom dreamed of grandchildren. She witnessed the birth of Collin, and from that moment she was enraptured. She poured herself into him, and when Cameron came along, her heart continued to swell with pride and joy. She snuck them gifts and treats, and curled up on the couch with them and a good flap-book. So now, as the days continue on, and the boys grow older by the minute, I am mourning the things she's missing, and the moments they will never share. My heart breaks knowing they won't know the amazing Grammy they had, nor will any future children that Lauren and I may bring into this world. 

But this is what I know. I know that I have a God who allows me to mourn. I love that He gives me these quiet moments of grief, but also continues to pour out small joys and moments of laughter. Collin giggling at the Christmas lights and taking off his pants in preparation to dance. Cameron's carefree clapping and hiding behind the blinds. My father running around with a small raccoon fleece hat on his head, much to the boys delight. It's these moments that I choose to relish in and wrap them around myself like a cozy blanket. It's my joy moments that pull me out of my cloud of grief, when I come across a card Mom wrote to me on my 30th, or I find colored bath tablets that she had given to me days before she died, "for the boys". 

God is good. Really, I promise. In fact, I have never been so sure of that fact, even though I am surrounded by daily reminders of lost moments with Mom. I have two choices. I can live each day bogged down by grief and self pity and "why me". Or, I can choose to live my life the way my mom modeled it. With joy and a hunger for Jesus. And loving those around me unceasingly. 

I choose joy.