Far From Broken

Chapter 52

But letting go wasn’t as easy as that. The grief I felt was as unpredictable as it was powerful. It came when I least expected it, hitting like an invisible wave, and then it was gone and and I was left wondering why my eyes were puffy and the papers on my desk sported small pocks from dried tears.

But I also had moments of such utter peace and joy that I knew Gram was visiting me. I knew she was reaching down, saying, Just be Sarah, just enjoy your life. In those moments, I could rest in the present, watching Kalvin pick up books from one part of the room and with focus, diligence, and fierce intent, take them to the other side and arrange them according to his baby filing system, each one in its place. I could rest and be absorbed in the simple joy of Grace running to me, her little legs churning at such a rapid speed I was sure she’d fall. “Momma! Momma!” she’d say with arms wide open until I picked her up. And she’d laugh that perfect laugh I’d heard from Gram so many times.

More quickly than I could have predicted, the memories stopped bringing tears and became reminders that Gram lived not only in me, but in Grace and Kalvin as well. Gram had given Jon and me orange Tic-tacs, now I was giving them to the babies who squealed with delight. Gram had rubbed my back before bed. Now Grace flopped on her belly as I turned off the light and demanded, “Pet me, Momma, pet me. Snuggle me.” Gram had sent me Readers Digest, The Upper Room, and Guideposts. They were on my bedside table. The woman I remembered who loved “Murder She Wrote,” matinees, blackberries, shrimp, leftovers, and travel, was gone.

I indulged each memory as it came, nuzzling against every detail, just as Woody nuzzled me. And along with the memories came a new phrase, “Perfect understanding.” It came out of nowhere, strong, powerful, expansive and grounding all at the same time. And I realized the perfection of the moment I was living, a moment in a life that I love with the same raw fierce determination with which my Gram, Laura Lavone Tueting, lived and loved.