By Lisa Appelo 
“Did you find everything you need?” the cashier asked, looking up as she scanned my groceries. It’s the same question every clerk at my local store asks every time I check out. But that day, her cheerful words felt like an arrow to my freshly bleeding heart.
I think I managed a half smile and mumbled a yes, but inside I was screaming differently. No! I didn’t get everything I need. I left my heart on aisle 13 between the spring water and sodas.
Six weeks before, I’d been woken up by my husband’s final breaths on the pillow next to mine. His sudden death had come from nowhere, with no signs and no warning symptoms. Life had imploded with loss. It was all I could do to put my feet on the floor every morning and try to show up to parent my children. They’ve lost one parent, Lis, they can’t lose another, I’d coach myself, willing myself out of bed.
In the weeks since, I’d gotten used to tears. Who knew a person could cry so much? I cried as I ran the trail near my home, trying to work out my angst and overwhelm. I cried as I wrote thank you notes for meals brought and checks sent. I cried at bedtime as my 6-year-old prayed and asked God to tell his dad hello.
Hot tears flowed as I journaled out my hard emotions and tough questions to God. And on Sunday mornings, worship undid me. The song set seemed hand-selected for me, and I was glad for the dim lights as I wiped away tears. But I didn’t expect the grief ambush in the grocery store.
Everything was fine-ish until I rounded the corner from frozen foods and began pushing my buggy down the water aisle. That’s when I caught sight of the green bottles of San Pellegrino. These had been Dan’s guilty pleasure. I was the mom who clipped coupons and shopped sales to stretch our food budget for our family of nine. But I loved getting to splurge on a few bottles of Pellegrino to chill in the fridge for Dan when he got home from work.
Now, they were a glaring reminder of all we’d lost. Dan wouldn’t be coming home from work. There’d be no more family dinners together, no Saturday morning walks, no Sundays altogether in the pew. There’d be no more little surprises. No more kisses as he left in the morning. No more Pellegrino in the fridge. And just like that, my heart broke all over again as warm tears spilled down my cheeks.
Loss doesn’t just happen once. It happens over and over and over. It happens every time you bump into one more way your person is gone. It happens every time you realize how life has changed and how it will never go back.
It happens when you open the email about the daddy-daughter dance. It happens at the basketball game as you cheer alone in the stands. It happens at every birthday, every milestone, every time you see their empty chair at the table. It happens when you least expect it.
I’ve learned that life after loss means the grief ambushes will continue to come. We’ll keep bumping into new ways our beloved is dearly missed. There will be tender moments in the midst of joy-filled days. And even in the middle aisle 13, it’s okay to cry.
by Dorina Lazo Gilmore-Young 
by Nicole Hastings 
