It’s a week since we rolled into Halifax to end our cross country trip, a week of being tourists, of driving hard for home, of laundry, grass cutting, putting flower beds right, and worshipping with our home church. This afternoon, we visited the stone that was placed on my mother’s gravesite sometime during the time we were gone.
My mother has been a large part of our travels over the past thirteen months. The dark cloud of her diagnosis rode with us through much of last year’s trip which ended in our being called home after making it to Northern Ontario. We were able to visit with her during the last week and a half of her life. She had questions about our trip, about the things we had seen the people we had met, the things we had experienced.
We continue to grieve her loss.
She came with us again as we picked up the journey, many times as a deepened sense of loss. The recognition that she would not be here when we got back, that she would not be there to ask questions about our experiences, to fill us in on what we had missed at home, how the family had changed, that we would not hear her characteristic “Oh?” as we dreamt out loud about next adventures.
That’s how grief works, isn’t it. It’s never really gone, you just need to learn how to live into the new reality.
We visited today. It was a quiet visit in a beautiful space. The stone, with it’s picture of a shepherd and a lamb, the words “The Lord is My Shepherd” carved deeply into it, provides a testimony to a life well lived, a woman sorely missed.