The silk scarf dropped back revealing her recently shaved head. The pump by her chair made a hissing sound as its air flowed into her nose and down to her dying lungs. Her frail hand held a crochet needle as she made another chain in the growing yellow blanket in her lap. She knew the time to let go was near, so with forced words that hung in the air waiting for a place to land she said, “One day you will understand.” That phrase was used at the beginning of many sentences she said to me before… well, you know.
“One day you will understand a grandmother’s love.”
“One day you will understand the meaning of family.”
“One day you will understand how it feels for people you love to leave and change.”
“One day soon you will understand grief.”
I sat beside her, nibbling on a cracker in hopes to keep the nausea at bay. A crumb fell on my extended belly, full of new life. Young and naïve, I shook my head and said “Yes ma’am,” as if I already understood the wisdom of someone of her age.
Fast-forward a couple of months.
My hand smoothed out the green felt of the chair I was sitting in. It was mid-January and the air was crisp. Tears warmed my cold cheeks. I averted my eyes and tried to relive all the cozy moments that had taken place in the nearby church instead of staring at the graveyard-reality I was sitting in. When I forced my eyes back, the shovel scooped up the first heap of dirt and, with one toss, grief settled in. Back at my home, the beautiful yellow crocheted blanket found its place on the crib. It was eager to swaddle new life and would have its chance come mid-April.
Can one person prepare another for the emotional, physical, and mental response to grief? My grandmother could have talked to me about understanding till her oxygen tank ran dry and I would still have been none-the-wiser. Her intentions were pure. She wanted me to understand so it would make the blows of life easier. My involvement with grief is complicated and has more to do with distance from loved ones than permanent loss. I don’t claim to be a grief specialist, just someone who has had run-ins with it, one quite recently. Some of you, precious readers, have walked hand-in-hand with grief for many years. It has become your closest companion. One day it showed up like a vicious storm that you never saw coming and the rain has yet to stop. Perhaps your agony has come in the form of a death you could have never prepared for. Maybe grief pulled up a chair with you as you watched an aging parent take their last breath. Or it may have knocked on your door in the form of a dissolved marriage, a pregnancy cut short, a wayward child, or painful mistakes of the past. Back to the rain metaphor… if the tragic event is a storm, then grief is like holding an umbrella with a million tiny holes in it but never really knowing when the rain is coming. When the rain pours, we don’t always get soaked, but it manages to drip through the holes, blow in from the side, or gather up as a puddle around our feet. We can stay dry for a while but at some point, we are all getting wet. Sorrow can be as familiar as our next breath and we would still lack the ability to prepare our closest friend for the rainstorm ahead. My grandmother had lived enough life to know this to be true, but she still went out trying to give me the best cover she could. Did she have any idea that her crocheted blanket would be such a helpful umbrella?
Fast-forward eighteen years.
The sheets felt cool and welcoming as I flung my stiff, tired body into the hotel bed. I reached into my bag to pull out the blue yarn that I was in the process of shaping into a “granny square.” I was new to crocheting but I was determined to make my daughter and her roommate a cute coaster for their new space. The journey to take our daughter to college started in St. Andrews, Scotland (where we have been living) and it took us to Georgia to visit family and friends, then to Missouri to visit more family, and then finally to Illinois. Traveling can make me weary and my emotions were right at the surface. It was Friday night and I was putting the finishing touches on a rather mediocre granny square. I looked over at my growing young adult in the bed next to me. I lifted the covers and patted for her to come lie next to me. We cuddled. Her dad tickled her. We snuggled close. The world stopped moving. I took a picture in my mind and placed it deep in my heart.
“I love you, Zoe Kate.”
“I love you, mom.”
In an instant the world was spinning again and she jumped back into her bed. I decided then that I would make a blanket for her new room, even if it was mediocre. A few days later, I watched with blurry eyes and tear-stained cheeks as she walked away to start her journey. She gazed back with the same look on her face and gave me a soft wave. I waved back. Grief settled in.
Fast-forward a few days.
My husband and I were on the first leg of our 18-hour road trip back to Georgia. I grabbed my phone to message my mom-friends who are a few years ahead of me. They had already had the experience of dropping a child off at college. I asked, “Why did someone not prepare me for this heartbreak?” The answer is simple: no one can. I threw my feet up on the dashboard. I shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable in the passenger seat and hoping for a nap. Within minutes my brain was flooded with words and memories, as often happens when I try to fall asleep. (It must be the only time I allow my deep thoughts to get a word in.) Here I sat, 18 years later, with a bag full of yarn and a crochet needle in my lap, my lungs struggling to breathe, knowing the time has come for me to let go. I had not connected the dots before this moment. It did not cross my mind when I started this journey that my grandmother was crocheting Zoe a blanket and, as she chained the loops together, she too was preparing to let go. When I decided to make Zoe’s blanket, my grandmother and those sweet moments beside her chair were the furthest from my mind. I haphazardly picked up crocheting in July but now I saw that the process picked me. Life had come full circle and I was floored by the irony and kindness of God. I laughed and I cried.
Grief is a funny thing and I am not sure we will ever fully understand it. What I have come to understand is that we are all holding some sort of umbrella attempting to keep the sadness away and most of us are more wet than we are letting on. Often there is no physical grave on which to lay flowers for the type of grief we have. We may have shovels full of dirt all around us but no hole to put it in. Maybe years have gone by since you started trying to let go and the process seems never-ending, like a lingering rainstorm and you’re always some degree of soaked. Of all the words I have written, please hear these: Your grief has validity no matter how big, how small, how short, or how long. I believe the God of the universe when he says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” I believe he will “heal the brokenhearted and bind up our wounds.” When and how is up to him.
Grief sometimes comes with a tomb and sometimes it comes as a crocheted blanket that says, “I am trying to let go.”
Heal our hearts, Lord Jesus.
