Yesterday was a challenge. We wrapped up our to-do list in Arkansas and my sister-in-law, Erin and her husband and I headed to Missouri to reconnect with the family and continue preparing for Saturday.
I expected it to be hard but hit the wall of tears faster than expected when I entered my brother-in-law, Gabe’s house. I couldn’t stop them. Gabe tried to distract, but 10 steps into the dining room and it was like my mind was yelling at me, "the last time you were here, Josh was too!" He sat at that table and laughed not long ago, sat on that couch by our niece and nephews, etc, etc.
The cry party continued as I drove to Josh’s mom’s house, where really more than a decade of memories have happened. The last time were were there, the 4th of July, before that we had a hair cutting party and before that . . . etc., etc., etc.
I sat in my car for a solid 15 minutes or more trying to compose enough strength to even walk back in the house.
It weighs heavy on all of us. There is a empty spot. Josh was here. We shared many great moments together here, and here and here, etc.
Mixed in with the sorrow and grief, we still find ways to laugh and love one another. Much like the words to a song we plan to use in Saturday's service, "joy and sorrow are His ocean, and in their every ebb and flow." I am thankful that is still possible.
I still want to cry at the drop of a hat but and my late nights and early mornings lead to piles of Kleenex and tear-streaked pillows. And it's okay.
I’m sticking with the “It’s okay that your not okay” concept.
Grief is messy.
Hi! It's Jenn Brown, writing my story that is now slightly different as we enter a season of new grief. On September 30, 2019, my dear husband Josh passed away after battling brain cancer.