The past few weeks seem like a blur; a frenzy of things to do, an inflow of faces and people and tears and laughs.
Two weeks ago tomorrow, my grandfather passed away. My aunt, uncle, parents, myself and grandma occupied the living room all through the night. We sang to him and talked to him and had the blessing of being able to say goodbye.
In the ensuing weeks, some of which may have been the most painful I have ever experienced, I learned a lot about love and hurt.
We spent countless hours at my grandmas, and memories came flooding back. Extended family poured through the doors, armed with food and hugs and tears and words of comfort. They were a tangible expression of love that helped to lift you when you thought that only hurt was left.
Conversations abounded and memories poured forth. My mind began to wander back to my childhood and the long summer days I spent at my grandparents house.
The memories of others and my own began to remind me just how full a life can be and what a difference it can make.
I was reminded of just how much my grandparents loved each other. Grandma was Grandpa's world. They did everything together and were practically inseparable. I can't recall a time when I remember them being apart, even for a day. They went everywhere and did everything together. Through the many extended hospital stays, my grandmother never left his side, sleeping in hospital chairs and beds regardless of whether the hospital staff liked it.
He loved his kids too. He was my Mom's hero and she was his spitting image. He was very organized and neat and worked all day long in his garden of tending the lawn. He was constantly active and full of such life. We would sit on the front porch and watch traffic and he and my mom would talk about their gardens. It is in these conversations and his words of wisdom to her that his love was conveyed, and those words that were shared we would come to treasure.
He loved me too. From the moment I walked in the door he was concerned about me, making sure that Grandma got me something to eat and drink. Often when everyone else had left the room he would lean forward in his chair and ask me if I needed any spending money, and as I got older always made sure my mother "locked me up at night."
There were times when selfishness wanted to kick in. I found myself not wanting to hug and comfort those around me and instead retreat into my own world, curl up in bed and pretend it was all a bad dream. I learned patience with others as everyone deals with grief differently and will act differently. I would like to think that I received some of the strength my grandfather possessed and instead of wallowing in my own hurt, I tried to do anything I could to help other family that was hurting. I still felt the pangs of grief at the thought of not being able to spend summers on the porch with him, or having him be at my wedding or just stopping by to talk. But I discovered the more you give of yourself, the more love you show to those around you, the less hurt there was. Love began to swallow up that hurt, it began to heal it as our family came together.
I believe in the above quote from Mother Teresa, and daresay I have experienced it. Sometimes it hurt to be around others who were grieving and still have to love them and help them and put on a smile instead of crying. I had to learn to love even when it hurt, even through the hurt, until hurt was swallowed up by love; until love abounded more than hurt and until healing began to take place. Its a process, its slow and often I hurt because I just want to be selfish and concerned about me. But I choose to let love win; to love until it hurts and even dream of the day when there will be only love.
