It’s funny

It’s funny the way grief comes in waves. Two months ago, I stood in Williams Cemetery outside Perkins Baptist Church on a hot August day and watched my cousins and brother serve as pallbearers for my grandma. I listened to the pastor read aloud 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18. There was hope and celebration in that funeral, but sometimes my loss seems so new and gaping.

It’s funny the things that remind me of her. Her perculator on my stovetop. The thought that crossed my mind as I arrived at the San Diego airport as ash rained down on the city from the wildfires: “Grandma’s going to be calling. She’ll want to know if I’m OK.” I knew, of course, that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, but for the moment, I just forgot. I realized as I was packing that I was waiting for her to call and tell me to be careful, to tell me she wanted to know all about California, to ask about work. As I pulled birthday cards from my mailbox earlier this month, I half expected to find one from her, some money tucked inside. My brother’s words echoed my heart’s cry a few weeks ago when I was at home, “I miss Grandma.”

Last night in choir as we rehearsed a song about heaven and Christ’s return, I found myself near tears. At that moment, I knew what it meant to “be homesick for a place I’ve never been,” as an old song my dad used to sing says. I’m ready for a place not like this world, without heartbreak, sadness, pain, and disappointment. A place where our home will be with God, every tear will be wiped away, and death, sorrow, crying, and pain will be gone forever. These days, it’s becoming more and more clear to me that I’m a stranger in a foreign land, and this place is not my home.