Pages of Memory

pages-of-memory

Hello, my dear friends! I’m not officially back from my bereavement time here on the blog, but there’s something I wanted to share with you anyway. First, my heartfelt thanks for all the support, prayers and encouragement I have received. As I shared earlier on Facebook, your kind words and thoughtfulness have been a light for me in the darkness of grief. A piece of my heart will always be missing without my Mom-mom, but your love has filled my heart in another way, and reminded me that mine isn’t broken completely. I wish I could give each of you a hug right now!

Tomorrow will make one week since my grandmother’s memorial service, although time has been a blur for me. I haven’t fully bounced back from all the preparations we made for her service, and aside from a journal entry, this blog post is the first thing I’ve written since my last goodbye to her.

However, I wrote something in her memory last week. One of my best friends read it aloud on my behalf at the memorial service. I’d like to share it here as well, in Mom-mom’s honor.

I’m not a poet, but I wrote this one out of love… and memory.

Pages of Memory
by Sarah R. Munson

In the library of my heart
Are shelves in rows and rows
And as I walk I start
To consider all my memory book shows

I bring it down with care
And open to my favorite page
To think of each memory we got to share
How you were there in every stage

When I was small, you were my favorite playmate
You could always make me laugh at any game
Every moment spent with you was a special date
Now without you, life can’t be the same

Pressed between the pages like flowers
Are our sunny, laughing days and late nights
All the times we talked and laughed for hours
The way you were so full of heaven’s light

I remember us walking hand in hand
Taking trips to church, the library and store
Loving every instant together, planned and unplanned
I couldn’t possibly love those times more

In the book of memories are also
Lessons I learned from you
All the boundless love you’d show
The kind, generous things you would do

Each sentence of our story is etched upon my heart
And although our time together had to end
So you could experience heaven’s new start,
You’ll always be both my grandmother and my friend

I know you will never be far from me
Forever you live, in my heart’s pages of memory.

Thank you again for your kindness and understanding for me in this time of remembrance. That friendship is something I hold onto, and will never forget.

With love & gratitude,

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What I Learned in February and the Beginning of March

February

I sat down to write this post on the final day of February, in a few snatches of time here and there. I barely had an opening before I was pulled away, so I left my laptop in hibernation and intended to come back later that night.

It’s the early hours of March 3rd now, and it’s the first time I’ve touched my keyboard since. In a way, I can barely believe I’m even typing these words now. I’m not quite sure why I’m doing it. This time, it isn’t because I have a particular point to make, or I feel witty, or even that the blog stats are down. I think maybe it’s because I need to empty my heart, but my journal pages are already tear-soaked and inky. Maybe it’s because even though my heart feels like it’s shattering, I believe someone will understand what little bits of it I scatter here. For once, I don’t know why I’m writing a post, and I don’t have the energy to figure it out.

February 28th and then March 1st were the hardest days of my life. I can’t remember what I learned in the other 27 days of February, because they seem so distant and blurred now. Anything I do vaguely recall doesn’t feel important anymore. On February 28th, I realized my dear grandmother wasn’t going to make it through the night. And then within the first hour of March’s first day, she was gone. After fighting a terminal illness for ten years, she was called home to Heaven. I know she’s overjoyed right now; I can imagine her running down gold-paved streets, smelling the most fragrant roses and breathing deeply at last. I can hear her telling me to be happy for her, and I am relieved to know she isn’t suffering anymore. But it still hurts. It’s supposed to hurt, because I loved her so much. That’s one of the things I’ve learned, I guess.

Usually, I make a list for this type of post, but there’s another lesson: Life doesn’t fit in lists. Sometimes, the smaller things do, but the desperate, gritty moments are impossible to pin down, or even fully understand.

In the last few days, I learned that words don’t always matter. The writer in me always wants to find the perfect ones, but they don’t always exist. The night Mom-mom passed away, I don’t remember much of what was said. I just remember the family gathering around; the way we blended sorrow and hope; and the moments when someone would hold me tight when I couldn’t hold myself together. The things I really remember, the things that truly mattered, I can’t put in words. They’re too sacred and raw to be contained in a few sentences.

Until this point, I had only watched true grief from the fringes. I had been the one trying to offer comfort for others’ losses; the one unsure what to say, if anything. Now the tables have turned, and I’ve learned what it means to grieve. I have learned we all process sorrow differently. I think it’s because we all love differently; we’re all created differently, and that spills into mourning and coping and going on. Yet despite doing it uniquely, we can’t do it alone. I’ve felt like being alone too much in the last few days, and so I’ve learned not to trust my feelings in this valley. Because isolation won’t help me heal. Yes, I need solitude but I also need the circle of people I can hold onto. Grief is dark and lonely enough as it is, and being constantly alone doesn’t make it any lighter.

I’ve learned that a little gesture can go a long way. Although words aren’t everything, the right ones can help. I shared the news of my grandmother’s passing on my social media first, and the comments and messages I received helped me feel a little less alone. It’s not always a big thing; sometimes the smallest things convey the greatest love. Like a friend sending me a text to make sure I’m okay, or getting me out of the house so I can get away from everything for a while; those things have been lifelines to me.

Something else I learned is that laughter is truly medicine. I’d always liked that Proverb, because I love to laugh, but it wasn’t until this week that I considered laughter medicine. I wondered if I would ever laugh again when Mom-mom passed away, but I have. Even until my sides ached. I felt guilty the first time, but she was a lady who laughed easily and often, so the sound of laughter makes me feel close to her again. And laughing seems to heal a little bit of the fracture in my heart. I think there’s a reason the Proverb compares laughter to medicine. Medicine isn’t taken unless you’re sick; laughter is needed most when you’re hurting.

The last lesson I learned was really more of a reminder: God keeps His promises. His Word promises healing, and my mom-mom has hers at last, in a place far better than this earth. She’s living the promise of Revelation 21:4-5 now:

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. (Rev. 21:4-5, KJV)

And even in my sadness, I take comfort in knowing I will see her again.

One day, when all things are new.

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P.S. One last thing: It probably goes without saying, but I don’t know how soon I’ll be back to posting regularly. February was an unsteady month as Mom-mom’s health declined, and I know March will be difficult for me as well. I didn’t take a formal “leave” from the blog last month, but I am for some time this month. Writing is therapeutic for me, and I do truly enjoy sharing with you here, so it may not be overly long. But I don’t have the emotional capacity to pressure myself, so I’m not setting an official timeline. I’ll look forward to sharing life again with you when I return! Thank you for being here, and reading this far. It truly means a great deal to me. ❤ — Sarah