In my grief journey, I’ve come head to head with some of the most intense emotions I’ve ever felt. They often come in a stealth-like manner, and I don’t even know they’re upon me until it’s too late. The tidal wave appears right in front of my face, sweeping me up in its tumultuous path, and leaving me fighting for air and spinning out of control. Then, before I know it I’m left lying on the ground, gasping and reaching out for anything that will steady me, make me feel safe and secure.
And it seems to me that it continues to happen no matter how far I get from the actual loss. It may happen slightly less often, but if anything, the tidal wave has only grown in power the further I am removed from the last days with my loved one. Certain things will smack me in the face and have me right back in front of the monstrous swell, powerless and terrified of what’s ahead. Seeing a Mother’s Day ad, catching a glimpse of a person who looks like her, hearing her favorite hymn sung in church. It gets me. Every single time.
But one particular thing that never fails to place me right in the path of grief’s unforgiving forces, one thing I wasn’t prepared for that would become one of my most intense grief triggers, is seeing old familiar faces of my mom’s closest friends. The ones who loved her despite her flaws, who believed in her, who walked alongside her during her life’s toughest moments and held her up in prayer when she desperately needed it. When I catch a glimpse of them in a crowd, well, forget about it. The tears cannot be stopped and the heartache cannot be tamed. These were her people. They knew her heart, and I always see a piece of her in each of them.
Once I came to terms with the fact that this was something that would continue to happen no matter how hard I tried to fight it or prepare for it, once I accepted the inevitability of it, I let the wave come. I didn’t fight it. I allowed it to sweep me up as I let the tears fall. I welcomed it tossing me this way and that as my mind was bombarded with flashbacks of my mother alive and well and laughing alongside her sweet friends. I cherish those memories. Memories of a happy healthy and here Mama surrounded by her people.
Grief is heavy. And hard. But the process, oh, the nitty gritty process of it all—if you allow it to, it can bring such beautiful healing. And one day, instead of fighting the waves you’ll allow yourself to be swept up in them. And you’ll find yourself smiling through the storm.
by Nikki Pennington 
by Ashley LeCompte 
