It just sneaks up on 'ya

Grief is a funny little devil.

Lately, I've been asked the same question by different people at different times. "How's your grief process going?" The question has been a hard one to answer. Some, because I'm not exactly sure *how it's going.* Nor am I sure what the process is suppose to look like. And before you go there, I know, I know... its not the same for everyone. There is no textbook answer. There's not even a way to prepare for it. And by it, I mean losing your mom. The one lady on the planet whom I NEVER had to explain anything to. And yet spent so much of my day explaining EVERYTHING. She was one person who wanted to know every gory detail of my day and would even ask follow up questions. Just when you thought you'd squeezed the lemon dry!

Most days, I truly am doing "fine" (although *fine* usually seems like the easiest way to answer when you're not really sure how much detail someone wants to know about how you are doing over the loss of your mother.) Fine for me means I'm not spending my day laying in bed with the covers up to my face bawling my eyes out. Fine means I am going about life as normal. Fine *might* mean I just finished off a carton of UDF Carmel Cone ice cream, oops. But all in all I think fine is just fine.

Except yesterday. I took the kids to the pool. It was perfect. Not too hot. Not too crowded. The kids all now have rings to float with and don't seem to need me as much. Olivia grabbed her ring and didn't look back. She found a "friend" she swam with a week or two back. They both had rings and I didn't see her until the next rest period. The boys were doing their thing and my heart swooned. It was so delightful to see my kids be people. Non-needy people (even if it was just for 30 minutes.) Then the thought occurred to me, "I wish I could go and call my mom. This is the kind of story we would have turned into a long conversation."

Later that day, I told Steve about the kids' independence. I told him about O's little friend. I even told him about how I choked up watching them. He listened. He delighted. But he couldn't be my mom. Nor should he.

Sometimes there's a thought that runs though my head, "I'm sad she's missing this." But then Truth rings forth. She's not missing a thing. And not because she's standing at some porthole of heaven spying on us (I just don't buy into that kind of thinking.) She's not missing out because she has EVERYTHING she needs in heaven and in Jesus.

And that's not some pat, Christian answer. I believe that with all my being. I'm the one missing out. I'm missing out on the phone call. I'm missing out on her delighting in my kids. And the million questions and ooos and ahhhs that would follow. And for that I grieve. But when I think of all the years of physical pain, loneliness and depression that she went through and how now all of that is relieved. Me? I'm fine.