Not long ago, Hazel looked up at me with her big blue eyes and said, “Mom….it’s sad to lose a sister, isn’t it.” She didn’t say it like a question, she said it from a known experience in her own heart.

It’s now been eight years since her sister died and almost one year since my sister died. 

Hazel is four, so she never met Lucy. My sister, Kate, was there the day I was born and I had thirty-seven years with her— she died one day before my birthday. The stories of us and our sisters are quite different, but the end result is the same for us.

They’re not here with us. We miss them. We wonder what Heaven is like. We wonder what they’re doing. We ache from the separation.

Life is a series of moments of holding on and letting go. Sometimes to survive you must hold on for dear life. Sometimes to survive you must let go. Sometimes it’s both simultaneously.

* * * * * * *

Months ago we went to the cemetery and I felt this old yet familiar feeling of anxiety mixed with nausea for the entire forty-five minute ride past the city, through the windy hills filled with trees. I used to feel this way when going to the cemetery was new after Lucy died, but through the years I’ve become more comfortable going. This day felt more like the first time again. 

We went to refresh Lucy’s flowers and visit her and Kate’s spots. It was our first time going back since Kate’s burial and I knew her marker would be in. My parent’s had already come to see it and fill Kate’s vase with flowers.

We parked and I felt heavy with sadness.

Was I really walking up to see the names of my daughter AND my sister in a cemetery? I’m only thirty-seven, how can this be? My stomach and heart could barely stand it. I breathed in and I breathed out because sometimes that is the only thing you know to do. I stepped out of the car and walked to Lucy’s spot, then to Kate’s. I stopped and stared. I thought I’d have fifty more years with her. She was only thirty-nine.

* * * * * * *

The morning that Lucy died, Kate grabbed her camera (she was a photographer) and rushed to the hospital to meet us, tears streaming down her face. My sister was soft spoken, sensitive, and so kind. She loved babies more than anyone I know. 

That morning, she took the saddest photos in existence in my world. She was there. She held Lucy. She cried. We captured it on film.

Over the next few years, Kate would bring her kids and visit the cemetery on Lucy’s birthday. She always remembered, she always reached out to me, she always showed up.

From Kate’s spot I looked at Lucy’s and thought about the fact that Kate stood there with us, tossing a rose on a casket, seven years prior, none of us ever dreaming that she’d be buried…..I counted as I walked….one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten steps away just seven years later.

During this visit, Hazel sat down on the grass by Lucy’s flowers, legs crossed one over another. Her body was relaxed as if she’d just sat down on the couch next to her best friend. She gently touched the flowers, quietly running them through her fingers like a sister at ease.

As I watched her I was stuck by how comfortable she was and how caring. She pressed in naturally. I awkwardly stood by my sister’s grave, teary and stiff. Hazel settled in next to Lucy’s. This is probably an example of one of the ways Jesus says we should be more like little children.

After awhile Hazel came to look at Kate’s flowers for a bit too, then it was time to leave. We told the kids that we were going to head out and Hazel quickly walked back to Lucy’s spot and began to cry hard saying, “I don’t want to leave Lucy”. We gave her some time, then eventually we left. For part of the ride home tears rolled down her face as she cried, repeating “I didn’t want to leave Lucy”.

I realize this might sound like a bit much if you haven’t walked through this, but it’s my hope that these raw glimpses at our life might help even just one person not feel alone.

Hazel has been crying about missing her “cool and beautiful sister” for years now. It happens every few months or so. We always hug her and say, it’s so sad isn’t it? I’m sorry she’s not here, we love her and miss her too. It’s quite astounding how connected Hazel seems to be to Lucy, even though they’ve never met.

The reality is, we grow up and tend to bottle up our feelings and our tears, and that doesn’t lead to healing. Honoring our feelings, letting the tears flow, acknowledging the sadness, sitting in it and then letting it pass is where the freedom, healing, and growth comes from.

* * * * * * *

I learned a lot about grief all those years ago when Lucy died and really the learning hasn’t stopped. It was only a couple years later, when I sat at my parent’s house one Thursday evening for family dinner, and my brother-in-law described what we now know was Kate’s first seizure.

I never would have imagined this grief on grief journey that I live in now— it’s a lot sometimes. After all the years have passed since Lucy’s death, I experience triggers less and less— sadness yes, and sometimes tears, but no unexpected breakdowns anymore. 

With Kate, the grieving process is still fresh and I’ve experienced some triggers over this past year. Shaun and I watched a movie a few months ago. I can’t even remember what movie it was now but it was the classic scenario or some kind of battle and a moment where one of the good guys was fatally wounded. In movies, someone always walks up and finds the wounded hero who then poetically dies in their arms after one final goodbye or request. 

Although the end looked much different than that when my sister died, I was there right near her and I watched her take her last breath. (And as I just typed that last sentence, I felt like I got punched in the gut and my eyes are now filled with tears.) Seeing someone take their last breath in a movie triggered me back to the moment of watching my sister die in real life. In an instant, I felt anxiety rush over my body. It felt like being drenched in warm water, and then I immediately started sobbing. That is what a trigger looks like for me, I didn’t know it was coming, it hits fast and there is no time to even think about or filter your emotions— you’re thrust into full vulnerability. I think there are also lesser intense versions of a trigger. It can be seeing or hearing something that reminds you of the person you lost, a memory that pops into your mind, or sometimes it’s just an unshakable anxiety that sits in.

* * * * * * *

I was texting with a friend on Lucy’s birthday. We were discussing how although I would never ever wish a scenario of loss and death on anyone, if you find yourself in that situation, you can find silver linings. It really hit me this year that my kids are in the habit of processing grief and loss. They’ve had to be, it’s been a reality for them their whole lives, but I see in them a freedom in that.

We have been really intentional about what we teach our kids about grief, not shying away from it and walking through it openly with them. We keep it honest, but as simple as we can. I can only imagine that learning to grieve and process pain and loss will help them in their lives because we all experience losses, big and small. It is really just a matter of when.

I think once you’ve walked through grief, you gain a resilience because you know you can do it. You survive it and then one day you realize hey, I’m okay, and suddenly you’re a little bit stronger. While also realizing that having moments or even days of falling apart is okay, totally normal, and part of the process of grieving.

* * * * * * *

I think about heaven quite a bit. It’s so hard for me to wrap my brain around the fact that Kate is in heaven with Lucy. My sister and I were really close. Just yesterday, I was looking in a drawer for a stamp. I had to search for one because I send physical mail so infrequently—ha! On the side of the drawer I saw a paper with a little note on it. The second I saw it, I knew Kate had written it. I didn’t need to read to the end to see where she signed her name— I knew her handwriting.

I can pull up Kate’s face in my mind and know all the details— the scar in the middle of her forehead from when she fell as a little girl, the color of her eyes, the beauty mark on her chin, the way her face looked when she smiled— it’s all right there. I can still hear in my mind what her voice sounded like. Not to mention the photos and videos I have that she’s in. I knew her deeply and I lived life with her.

I don’t really know Lucy at all. I felt her kick in my belly, I saw her and held her and I have photos, but that’s it. I never heard her voice, saw her smile, watched her grow. So with that, my brain is processing two very different realities and trying to comprehend that they’re together in paradise. Two of the closest people to me— one who I know deeply and one who I don’t know yet. And now they know each other.

* * * * * * *

Of course I have pain and questions, like, why wasn’t my sister healed? Why did my daughter unexpectedly die? Both realities feel really tragic and really unfair.

I recently listened to a sermon by John Mark Comer about healing. It was part of a sermon series he did that I was listening to and honestly, I wanted to skip that episode because there is fresh pain in my heart about it. But as I’ve learned, you can’t go around pain, only through it. So I pressed play on the episode and I’m glad that I did. John Mark explained healing in a way that made so much sense to me and made me feel better. He said, “we live in the now and not yet”. (for more information on that I highly recommend listening to the sermon)

I still believe God heals and I still believe in miracles, even as I work through not seeing those things happen in the moments that I wanted them to happen.

I grieve with hope because I know that the ultimate victory has already been won. Jesus died and conquered death, and because of that, Kate and Lucy are alive with him in paradise and one day I’ll join them. And on that day, the not yet will be the now and it will all be worth it because we follow him.

I truly believe that God takes every situation in our lives, even the most tragic and horrible, and in his deep love for us, uses it for good. I think this is something followers of Jesus talk about and say, and it feels like a nice idea, but when you live it and open your eyes and heart to see it in action in the depths of your tragedy, it’s really astounding.

I think regardless of us, God’s goodness is always at work because it’s who he is. You know those people who are just super helpful? (I’m looking at you, enneagram twos : ) There is no doubt in your mind that no matter what situation or environment they’re in, they will be right in there seeing needs and helping. Or maybe it’s another trait— leading, empathizing, etc., just fill in the blank with something else. You know people just cannot help themselves, they act out who they are— and they’re just humans, how much more is God consistently who he is— the answer is, always.

“The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.” Exodus 34:6 NIV

The more I get to know God intimately, the more I see that there is always an invitation for more. His hand is always outstretched as a kind, gentle invitation for me to come closer, into more love, peace, healing. It’s such a safe place to abide in him. My questions are welcome and so are my tears. He patiently hears my internal adult temper tantrums and he still loves me.

One of the biggest takeaways I have after walking through the death of two family members— one unexpected and the other less so, I can say with absolute assurance that God is in the details. I also think you can miss it, if you don’t have your eyes and heart open.

Lucy’s death was traumatic and unexpected, my whole grief journey was after the fact. Kate was diagnosed with a terminal illness. She had a chance of survival but statistically the chance was very small. We knew death was a strong possibility, but nevertheless, I held on and prayed for healing, for a miracle, and didn’t give up believing until we were in the end and it was time to let go. My grief journey started a long time before she died. When people are sick, you lose them in pieces. They can’t show up to things, they can’t do what they used to be able to do— normalcy was stolen years ago and with that grieving began.

Although I didn’t see the healing and the miracle that I wanted to see, I felt God’s presence like never before. He said he is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18), and that is a promise. He said he will never leave us (Deuteronomy 31:8), and that is a promise.

I won’t recount to you the seemingly small details that majorly impacted the timeline and therefore what happened or didn’t on the days that Lucy died and that Kate died, but I will say that things could’ve been different and worse.

I can describe it best as God’s loving hands holding me tightly and slowing the impact of it all so that I wasn’t completely crushed by it. Feeling his kindness and loving protection of our hearts in the details of the darkest moments of our lives, has felt so personal and intimate. I can’t prove it to you, I can only tell you of what it did to my heart.

We went to the cemetery again, and this time Hazel didn’t cry or linger around Lucy’s spot. She found two, nearly life-size angels that were made from stone on a bench. She was fascinated by them and loved them. She traced the wings with her fingers, touched their faces, and asked to take some photos with them. I share this to say, you never know what response kids will have when visiting a cemetery, sometimes it’s deep and intense and sometimes they’re more interested in playing.

Our kids are getting older now. On Lucy’s birthday and also whenever we visit Lucy’s spot at the cemetery, we ask them what they think she is doing and what they think she might like. It’s fun to get them thinking about her and to hear their answers.

This year, Ezra said he thinks she is having a birthday party in heaven and that Abraham Lincoln will be there. Hazel decided she should change into a fancy dress after school for Lucy’s birthday. Oliver stayed true to his yearly idea that on her birthday she swims and goes bowling. Everyone agreed there’d be cake.