Death is nothing at all. It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name, speak of me in the easy way which you always used, and put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,
just round the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Henry Scott-Holland
Loss
Just let me grieve.
Please, Don’t Tell Her How to Grieve
She’s in the kitchen, washing dishes with her back to you. You approach her quietly, two cups in hand. Fingerprints were smudged on the glass. A few gulps of milk were still sloshing around inside. You set them beside the sink and glance at her apologetically.
She doesn’t notice.
Steam rises from the faucet as scorching water pours over her hands, scrubbing absently at an already clean pot. Her gaze isn’t on the dishes. It’s fixed out the window.
You follow her line of sight, watching a red bird flit about in a bush at the back corner of the yard. When you look back at her, her expression has clouded over. Her eyes, heavy with sorrow, blink slowly as if to hold back something that can no longer be contained.
And then, a single tear escapes.
Suddenly, the dishes don’t matter anymore.
It’s back again.
You’ve been tiptoeing around it, avoiding the mess it creates each time it resurfaces. You’ve given so much of yourself to hold her up because the world feels like it crumbles whenever she falls apart.
And you’ve caught yourself wondering… When will she get over it? When will the tears stop? When will the memories stop tormenting her?
When will she finally move on?
I know you want to tell her it will be okay. That everyone loses someone they love, and time will heal her pain. You want to remind her that she’s not alone in this.
I know you want to say something. Anything.
But above all, please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
When she cries, don’t try to quell her tears. She’s not drowning in them. She’s swimming through the memories of love they shared.
When she speaks of them, don’t change the subject because you think it’s too painful. It’s more painful to bury the memories than to let them be.
And as the days pass, don’t ask her to move on. She’s not stuck. The person she’s mourning will always be a part of her, and she will always be a part of them. Death didn’t break that bond. Time won’t either.
The tears will stop for now. But they may return tomorrow, or next week, or in twenty years. And when they do, it’s because the love they shared is everlasting.
There’s nothing you can say that will change this. Nothing you can do to make it easier.
So please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
Just hold her hand. Listen to her stories. Walk beside her through the sorrow.
You may not be the one she’s missing, but you’re the one she has left.
And sometimes, your quiet presence is all she needs to get through. ♥️
A letter from your late loved one.
Hi. This is your late loved one speaking. I don’t have long, so listen up because I have a lot I want to tell you.
First off, I get it.
Ever since I left this world you have missed me, and I know you’re bracing for the holidays without me. No matter what anyone says, this year’s festivities are going to be really tough.
In fact, let’s be honest, this festive season will probably suck pondwater. But then, Thanksgiving and Christmas are tough holidays for a lot of people. You’re not alone.
See, the misconception about the holidays is that they are one big party. That’s what every song on the radio claims. Each television commercial you see shows happy families clad in gaudy Old Navy sweaters, carving up poultry, smiling their perfect Hollywood teeth at the camera. But that’s not exactly reality.
In reality, fifty-eight percent of Americans admit to feeling severely depressed and anxious during November and December. In reality many folks will cry throughout the “most wonderful time of the year.”
Well, guess what? Nobody is crying up here in heaven. This place is unreal. There is, literally, too much beauty to take in. Way too much.
For starters—get this—time doesn’t even exist anymore. Which I’m still getting used to.
Right now, for all I know, the calendar year down on Earth could be 1728, 4045, 1991, or 12 BC. It really wouldn’t matter up here. This is a realm where there is no ticking clock, no schedule. Up here there is only this present moment. This. Here. Now. That’s all there has ever been. And there is real comfort in this.
I know this all seems hard to grasp, but if you were here you’d get it.
Also, for the first time I’m pain free. I feel like a teenager again in my body. You probably don’t realize how long I’ve lived with pain because I never talked about it, I kept my problems to myself because I was your loved one, and you needed me to be brave.
But pain is a devious thing. It creeps up on even the strongest person, little by little, bit by bit. Until pretty soon, pain becomes a central feature of life.
Sometimes my pain would get so bad it was all I thought about. No, I’m not saying that my life was miserable—far from it. I loved being on earth. It’s just that simply waking up each morning was getting exhausting.
But, you know what? Not anymore. In this new place, I am wholly and thoroughly happy.
But enough about me. I don’t have room to describe all the terrific things I’m experiencing, and you don’t need to hear them. Right now, you’re grieving, and what you need is a hug.
Which is why I’m writing to you. This is my hug to you. Because you’ve lost sight of me. And in fact, you’ve lost sight of several important things lately.
Death has a way of blinding us. It reorganizes the way you think, it changes you. You will never be the same after you lose someone. It messes with your inner physiology. It reorganizes you’re neurons.
But then, there’s one teensy little thing you’re forgetting:
I’m still around.
Yes, you read that correctly, I’m right here with you. No, you can’t see me. No, you can’t reach out and hold me. But did you know that one of the things I’m allowed to do as a heavenly being is hang out with you?
It’s true. I’m never far away. I’m in the room with you now, along with a big cloud of ancestors, saints, and witnesses. I’m shooting the breeze alongside you, watching you live your life, watching you raise your kids, watching your private moments of sorrow.
Here, in this new realm, I am in the perfect position to help you learn things. Which is what I vow to spend the rest of your earthly life doing, teaching you little lessons, lending you a hand when you least expect it, and desperately trying to make you smile. Actually, I’ve already been doing this stuff, you just don’t realize it.
What, you don’t believe me?
Well, wake up, pal. You know that tingle you get in your spine whenever you think of me? That’s me.
You know how, just yesterday, you had a beautiful memory when you were driving and it made you cry so hard that it actually felt good and you began to laugh through tears? Also me.
You know how sometimes when you’re all alone, preoccupied with something else, suddenly you get this faint feeling that someone is standing in the room with you? Hello? Me.
You’re not alone on this earth. You never were. You never will be. So during this holiday season, when cheerful families are getting together and making merry, and taking shots of eggnog, I’m going to be clinging to your shoulder, helping you muddle through somehow.
I’ll be making your spinal column tingle a lot, and I’ll be sending plenty of signs. Each of these signs—every single one—is code for “I love you.” So start paying attention to these hints.
Because this was one.
Shared from Emma McCartney
November hurts
We had plans to go see some family the weekend before Halloween. We were taking Bean to see her great grandmothers in north Texas. On Friday, I decided that waiting until next weekend was a bad idea. Call it intuition, call it a hunch, call it whatever you want.
I marched into hubman’s office and told him we needed to pack up and leave today. This was Friday, October 20th. He didn’t ask questions. He just finished up his work for the day and we were on the road.
On Saturday, October 21st, we walked in to surprise Grandmom Grace. She had no idea we were coming to see her and to see the smile on her face when we walked in was absolutely the best thing ever.
Grandmom held our sweet Ady, gave her lots of hugs and kisses and told her she’s just beautiful. We ate lunch with Grandmom and visited for a few hours before Ady got cranky and decided it was nap time.
It was the hug. The hug when we said “see ya later” just hit different. I told Grandmom that we’d be back for her birthday, but somehow I knew… I knew in my heart that we wouldn’t be having a party this year. Though teary eyes and with a heavy heart I hugged her a bit tighter. I kissed her cheek and tried not to let her see my face as I walked away. Hearing her talk about how precious our daughter is melted my heart.
Later that week, Grandmom ended up in the hospital. She fought like the dickens and eventually went to rehab to get stronger.
Unfortunately, getting stronger and going back home to be her feisty self wasn’t how this story ends.
We lost my precious Grandmom Grace on Thursday, November 16th. Knowing that she got to know our Ady is the only thing I wanted. I wanted her to hold her, talk to her, love her, AND SHE DID. Ady will always know her Grandmom Grace. She’ll hear stories and we’ll share memories with her as much as much as we possibly can.
As I sit here at 4am typing this, tomorrow we are going to Grandmom’s visitation and Monday we’ll have her service to say our final goodbyes. Almost to the day, we lost another precious grandmother, Nonnie 6 years ago. November hurts.
I hope one day Ady knows how incredibly special she was to her. Grandmom thought Ady was the best little princess in the entire world.
I’d like to think that Ady and the rest of the family didn’t lose Grandmom, we just gained one of the best angels there ever was to have wings.
Welcome home, Grandmom. Please watch over us because this world is cruel and we need all the help we can get from our angels. I love you. Ady loves you. You’ll NEVER be forgotten.
View Grandmom’s obituary here.
I’m not sure I have anymore words for right now. My heart hurts. I’ve lost my best friend. So for now, I’ll leave you with some unsolicited advice: Call your grandparents. Call your parents. Call your siblings and your cousins. Go see them if you can. Hug them tight. TELL THEM YOU LOVE THEM! You never know when that will be the last time.
Hopfully my next post will be a bit more cheerful. For now, I’m going to flip my pillow over and try to fall asleep so that I’m not a complete zombie when I see my family tomorrow.
I LOVE YOU ALL. SERIOUSLY.
Project: Life 