The Thing About Loss
There’s a woman who lives a few houses down from us. She’s a sweet lady, in her 50’s or 60’s. She’s on the shorter side, with a kind face and blonde hair.
A few days a week, she watches her grandkids. A girl who is a few years older than Emily, and a boy who is right around Nathan’s age. She brought the granddaughter around the block to sell girl scout cookies a few weeks ago. This morning, I saw her pushing her grandson around the block in his stroller. She waved as I drove past, and looked so happy to be spending time with her baby’s babies.
I waved back at her, and the ache hit.
She looks a lot like my mom. Petite, blonde hair, same haircut, even. Sweet demeanor. Kind eyes. And watching her take that little boy on a walk reminded me of my mom, who will never get to walk my boy. She won’t get to comb his fuzzy hair or watch his face light up when he sees his sister. Her face will never be wet from his sloppy kisses, her neck will never be squeezed by his strong little baby arms.
She won’t get to hear my sweet girl sing, or watch her dance, or listen as she sounds out words in her beginning reader books. She won’t get to sweep them away for a night at Grandma’s house, or spoil them on their birthdays (or on a random Tuesday, like she would have).
She never got to meet my babies.
The thing about loss is that it pops up on an ordinary day, when you’re doing ordinary things. I waved to my neighbor and the knot formed in my stomach again, sending me into tears as I pulled our car into our garage. I was just driving down the street, for goodness sake.
It pops up when I pick up my phone because I just need someone to talk to, but her face isn’t on my speed dial, and no one else quite measures up.
It pops up when the papers come home about tickets for Emily’s upcoming dance recital and I wonder if anyone will come. She would have come.
They say it gets better with time, but they’re wrong. It never gets better. It gets different. Maybe you go longer between tears sometimes, or maybe there are days when you don’t think about it anymore. But when the ache pops up, it hurts just as bad, every time. Loss is still loss. And as I get older, and my kids get older, there are surprisingly more losses to grieve. More milestones she is missing. More days I need to hear her voice.
I miss her today. I miss her every day, but today the tears come and they force me to sit with Jesus for a while because I still don’t understand. I still hate it. I still feel lost without her.
I used to refuse to sit here, with Him, because He didn’t save her and I lost trust in Someone who would let that happen. But eight years later (learn faster than me, okay?), I’m learning that cancer makes Him sad too. That He understands the loss of someone irreplaceable, and He died to make sure that our stories don’t end in loss. I don’t know why He didn’t save her, and I might never know. But what I do know is that sitting with Him is the only thing that fills the hole she left. So, I sit.
I don’t know what you’ve lost, or who you’ve lost, or if you’ve lost anything yet. I don’t know if you’ve run from Him or run to something else. But I do want you to know what it’s taken me years to learn.
The thing about loss is that it reminds us that we cannot do this life on our own. We cannot process, cannot understand, cannot make it through without Him. The holes that loss leaves are too big for anything worldly to fill. Only Jesus can do it.
And on the ordinary days, when the ache surprises us and the tears come and the pain is fresh all over again, maybe we just let it come. We let it come, and we bring it to Him, and He fills us the way only He can. With love that covers all the ugly of this world, and hope that bleeds into eternity.
Kayse Pratt serves Christian women as a writer + designer, creating home + life management resources that help those women plan their days around what matters most. She’s created the most unique planner on the market, helped over 400 women create custom home management plans, and works with hundreds of women each month inside her membership, teaching them how to plan their days around what matters most. When she’s not designing printables or writing essays, you’ll find Kayse homeschooling her kids, reading a cheesy novel with a giant cup of tea in hand, or watching an old show from the 90’s with her husband, who is her very best friend.
Your love of planners brought your blog to my notice. But your post about our common loss was what got my attention. You are so right: the ordinary days are often the toughest and only Jesus can help us make sense of the loss. Today marks 365 days since my mom last sat in her home, in her own little spot which she had occupied since before my memories began. 365 days ago she waved goodbye to Dad, reassuring him she’d be back soon, that the ambulance was only there because we girls were such worry-ers. Little did we know she had begun the last leg of her journey Home. Three weeks later, three horrible weeks later, Jesus invited her to Heaven and our 84-year old mom traded her hospital gown for heavenly clothes. I miss her so.
I’m so very sorry. That first year is absolutely the hardest. I’m praying for you right now!
I lost my Dad almost 3 Month ago. Eight Days before my little Daughter was born….This is so true.
Kayse, this is such a perfect description of grief. My little brother has been gone for 25 years and my mom almost 3 years ago and some days are fine and other days all I have to do is say their names or think of them and I am a total mess. Yes it is in the ordinary but I find my heart breaks all over again when someone else has to go through this heartbreak. Thank goodness for my accountability partner who helps keep me grounded and always points me back to Him.
So true. Thank you so much for your heart poured into these words. I lost my dad 13 years ago and just this month my mom entered into hospice for her brain cancer. Thank you for your reminder that Jesus wants to be with us in our ache. He’s not necessarily going to keep loss from happening or take our pain away but He is with us like no one else can be, maybe because He’s also with those we have lost when we can’t be. Somehow that makes me feel a bit closer to my dad.
I don’t know how i missed this, when you first wrote it, but dear friend i just wanted to tell you how beautiful and true and healing this is. Yes, sometimes grief just completely catches you off guard…like when you start leaking tears in the check out line and then recognize that familiar perfume was your dear granny’s (side note: I don’t think people like knowing when their perfume reminds you of your passed granny) and let’s not talk about how many times I cried at the sight of pregnant tummies. There are times when sitting with Jesus was hard because I was so angry with Him, but I’ve learned His grace is big enough for even those moments and He is the only one who can heal our hearts.
Kayse, beautifully written and thoughtfully conveyed. You are so right. . . . it doesn’t actually get better, it just gets different. Life will always be different and yes, it does pop up in ordinary situations and just grabs you. The other day, I was in the grocery store and I smelled my mama’s perfume. Instinctively, I began to look for her, coming upon a sweet little lady who, by all outward appearances, looked an awful lot just like my mama. Right there in the middle of the grocery store, the tears began and I had to fight hard to get out of there before I just was out of control. It has been 7 years since my mama went to her heavenly home and still it grabs me when I least expect it. Love you Kayse. You are amazing and I deeply appreciate your gift of writing!
Kayse, your mom was a gracious, lovely woman. I remember her light way and quick giggle and bright smile. She loved you and Seth so much. She invested tremendously into her family. She loved you more than anything, well except Jesus. I ache for you. No young woman should have to navigate through motherhood and marriage without their sweet Mom. Yet God called her home. As I follow your posts, I feel her presence through your words. I cannot read a single sentence without feeling her. You my dear, are a constant reminder of a very lovely lady who is genuinely missed. I will pray for you as often as I think of you as you continue this journey of “different”. And yes, she would not have missed a thing in the lives of your children. I pray God will continue to be your comfort and as you continue life without her you would be quick to live out the legacy she left behind.
Thank you so much. Honestly, your words are so kind. I couldn’t appreciate you more!
Oh, tears. This is so beautiful and I needed it today. I feel like I’ve been, so many days, in the place you described. Unable to sit with Him, not knowing how to even trust the One Who took our little baby to heaven. Gonna take some time to spend with Him today. Sending you a hug…I wish it could be in person. Thank you for this.
Oh friend, I wish I could hug you too!!! Praying for you right this second.
Yes, I totally identify with this, Kayse… We’ve lost two babies during pregnancy, and you are right – the pain doesn’t get better, it gets different. One of my favorite books is Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, and I think it contains one of the best descriptions of grief:
“It surprised him that his grief was sharper than in the past few days. He had forgotten that grief does not decline in a straight line or along a slow curve like a graph in a child’s math book. Instead it was almost as if his body contained a big pile of garden rubbish full both of heavy lumps of dirt and of sharp thorny brush that would stab him when he least expected it.”
Thanks for the reminder to sit with the Lord and let him bind me up…
Wow, that is an incredible quote. Thanks for sharing, and I’m so sorry for your losses! Praying comfort for you tonight.
I love you and the way you craft your thoughts, hurt, and feelings into beautiful words. I agree, just because we know the truth and we know who is Truth, doesn’t mean our pain is denied. Finding peace in the beauty AND the ashes, my friend. I love you, Kayse!
You are so nice to me, friend. 🙂
Thank you SO much for posting this, and for being honest about a painful subject. I lost my mom to cancer only four years ago this April and it is like you have looked in and read my heart. God sent your post to me today, and I will be more quick to bring my ashes of sadness to Him and trade them for Christ’s beauty. Thank you! I am going to share your post with my sisters. 🙂
Sigh, I’m so sorry. Cancer is the one thing that makes me want to swear on a regular basis. I’m glad you were encouraged, but I’m so very sorry for your loss.
I love you. And loss is tough. I think part of it is that it does keep popping up when you least expect it.
Amen. And I love you back!
Thank you for these words Kayse. You are right, Mom would have been there to see your kids often.
This month and other reminders as you pointed out, brings the loss up close again and the hurt comes back.
Your also right about spending time with God is the only thing that helps give me peace, well there is the happiness that comes when you guys visit also, and I get to spend time with your kids.
I love you, Dad
You could always move up here… 😉 Love you, Dad.
Oh, sweet friend, this was beautiful. And so timely. My baby, Jane, and my best friend’s mama both left us this week last year. I’ve shared your post with her too.
Ah, I’ve been thinking about you and Jane this week. Praying for you, friend.
Kayse, this is SO beautiful. I haven’t experienced loss in this way– not yet– but chances are I will at some point in my life. And I’ll have to remember this: that only Jesus can fill those holes that loss leaves.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful heart!!
Thanks for your kind words!
Thank you for this, aabsolutely beautiful. 2 months ago today I said goodbye to my mom, 20 1/2 years ago I said goodbye to my dad. It never gets easier but I seek comfort in Him, especially on the days when anger and grief compete for my attention.
Anger and grief are intertwined for me too. Praying for you always, friend.