“Grief never ends…But it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith… It is the price of love.” -Author unknown

This past weekend, I cleaned out an old box I have in my closet. It’s where I keep the past year’s Christmas and birthday cards, thank you notes, and any letters that have meant something to me. One of the things in the box was a booklet some dear friends had made for my 40th birthday. I hadn’t read it since first receiving it, so I picked it up and turned the pages. And I remembered…

The actual day I turned 40 was shitty to be honest – without going into details, I felt forgotten by the person who was supposed to love me most. But, my friends came to the rescue with a surprise staycation weekend downtown and handed me this beautiful collection of verses and notes from people wrote to celebrate me. The verses were like prayers being spoken over me and the words like oxygen tanks helping me breathe.

When who you think you are is cut into a million tiny pieces, the words of faithful friends can act like superglue, pulling them all back together. Re-reading the notes from these friends brought so much comfort, and yet sparked a wave of sadness I hadn’t felt in some time.

I’ve written about this as nauseam, but I still find myself surprised by the grief that comes from loss. It can strike at any time, in any season, and then suddenly, it can vanish like it was never there in the first place. It’s like a flash storm in a tropical place where you’re standing outside with no umbrella and no rain jacket. And then, just as quickly as it came, the clouds give way to a sparkly sun peaking out and warming you with its rays of gold.

That was almost 3 1/2 years ago, and it turns out the pieces are still finding their way back to me. The truth is that I am in a season of self reconstruction. A building back up of the person I was before the trauma, but with some new bits and parts. Some are upgrades and some are just things I’m trying on to see how they feel. The pieces don’t all fit together the way they used to because the wounds changed the composition of who I am and who I will become.

Reading the booklet was a remembrance of sorts. That I was (and still am) seen and loved and worthy of such affection. We need these things – these markers – to point us back to times in our life when we were saved from the desert of loneliness or fear or heartache. They serve as emotional scar tissue concurrently bringing to mind the sting of the fissures of my heart, but more importantly, beckoning the recognition that there was healing that was had.

Now, the words feel like a stream of fresh water running through my veins, reminding me there is still a lot of life to be lived and happiness to be found. And the next time the storm comes, I’ll find another sort of remembrance to spark the memory that the rain only lasts for a little while, and that the rays will break through again to warm both my skin and my soul.