What Would Life Be If We Didn't Love or Grieve?

My cousin died this week. We weren’t close, but we grew up around each other. We went to birthdays, family events, and saw each other around. We knew each other existed somewhere in the back of our minds, and I guess like the rest of the world we simply assumed the other would just keep moving forward in life. Do all the things: fall in love, find a job, start a family, grow old. I didn’t know his life would be cut short at 25.

My cousin was 25, and in realizing that, I remembered an old friend I once knew only got 25 years as well. A girl I hadn’t talked to in years but once called my best friend, died back in March. And again, I had just assumed she’d keep moving forward. We weren’t friends anymore–time does that–but at one point we were. I called her my best friend, and she was the one who I told my secrets to; the one who knew all the boys I had crushes on in middle school and all the code names I gave them. At 13, I assumed she’d have another 13 years (and then another after that and so on), but her 13 was cut short just a couple months before her 26th birthday.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a funeral for my best friend’s dad. It was unexpected. He was 59. He got a lot more than 25 years, but I still expected him to have a lot more left. I envisioned a future where I was in my 30s and 40s and he was in his 70s, and we’d laugh about the old days. I imagined he’d tell stories to my kids someday about the many hair colors I went through and the copious amounts of lemon bars Erin and I made in high school. Now, that’s just an alternate reality that will never exist.

It all leads my mind back to my grandma. She was 86. I’m not upset with the number of years she got; I’m upset because I naively assumed that I’d somehow get more time. I thought the global pandemic would end, and the world would allow me to say goodbye to her in all the right ways. Instead, I found myself whispering the weakest, most pathetic, “thank you” into her ear on a random weekday in February of last year. I sat there in her room as she died slowly, and then all at once. One second, her chest swaying up and down and the next it was hauntingly still. My sister held her arm searching for a pulse that didn’t exist anymore.

I guess that’s the thing about death, there is no preparing for it. Even when you know it is inevitable–because at the end of the day, it is inevitable for us all–we still find ourselves shocked, confused, and at a loss. We grieve, and that grief can be dreadfully encompassing. It’s all-consuming.

And you know what we’re left with? Time.

Time that doesn’t heal all wounds. Time that simply allows you the space to normalize living with your grief. It allows you the space to become used to their absence, to ponder all the why’s and what if’s, to question the choices you made and grovel over the ones you didn’t.

Sometimes, grief has led me to think wild thoughts, like closing my heart off to the people around me. If I don’t love, I can’t grieve. But what would life be if we didn’t love? Why would life even matter if we didn’t connect with the people around us?

I’ll admit it–it’s silly of us to assume anything. Maybe that’s a lesson I’m having to learn the hard way. I don’t think it’s wrong to be hopeful and want the best for others, but I guess it’s important to remember that tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone. It’s not promised to you, your spouse, your siblings, or your parents. It’s not promised to the cousin you barely knew, your middle-school bestie, or the person you considered a second dad. I think the best we can do is cherish the days we have, hope for what’s to come, and be grateful for each day the Lord wakes us and our loved ones up.

I know I’m grateful tonight to be sitting here in my bed surrounded by my dogs and my husband, and I say that all while knowing that someday, I’ll read this and my life won’t look the same. My dogs will hopefully age and gray just like my husband and I will hopefully age and gray, and eventually, we will all cease to exist on this earth. So tonight, I want to celebrate this moment. I want to bask in my gratitude and thank the heavens above that this is my life right now. I will grieve losses to come, I already know, but those losses will not be in vain. They will be held graciously, knowing there is so much love attached to them.

“Grief is the price we pay for love.” - Aunt Josephine, Anne of Green Gables