Grief hits you at weird times. It hits you when you expect it to - when you smell her old clothes and you still smell her. Or when you walk past a picture, cheerful eyes smiling back at you. Or when you spend time with her friends and they are wonderful and it totally makes sense why they were her friends because they have that same joy and sweetness.
Grief surprises you, too. When you see the little girl in the daycare at the gym, hair stolen by chemo. When you have a conversation with your mother-in-law and she makes an expression and you catch a glimpse of Sara in her face and voice. When your mind suddenly jumps to a memory, and it feels so close and so real and you can actually hear her laughing. And then you remember she's gone.
Grief is that blister on your foot, that little stab of pain that still reminds you it's there and it's real, and even though it's healing, it's not going away anytime soon. Because you have to keep walking. You can't sit down and stop, and little things will keep reminding you and keep the wound open.
This isn't what I intended to write about today. But I write what I must write.
"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven...a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance." Ecc. 3:1 & 4
Sometimes I need to remember it's okay to mourn and weep. Because we all go through this at some point or another. And just because we weep doesn't mean we don't still have joy or hope.
These are just my scattered thoughts today, as my cat sits on my lap and a candle burns oatmeal raisin cookie scent into the air and Sam's flowers peek at me outside the window.