On death and new life in Springtime

Two years ago, my best friend lost her little sister. Lost. What a mild way to put it. The whole truth is that a treasured sister, friend, wife, aunt, and daughter lived with cancer for seven years and then she died. When she lived, she really lived. A laughing, giving, dancing, listening, kind, caring life. When she died, she really died. She was gone. And it was permanent and it was final. In the decade that I knew Mary, she and I would commonly go three or four months without seeing each other. Then a celebration - a birthday, the Fourth of July, the Super Bowl - would bring us together. I loved being with Mary. Time with her was a gift. The year after she died, I felt like I was simply experiencing one of those in-between times. Like it was normal to go so long without seeing her, and that surely soon I’d get to hug her neck and share a fun evening with her. I’ll see her at the next birthday party, I would think. But then I’d remember. And in that moment of remembering, the truth of her death would be fresh and new and painful all over again. Mary died on March 19. The next day, the calendar told us that the first official day of Spring had arrived. Spring. The time when the earth says, “Okay, let’s make this place ALIVE again.” That year, the daffodils seemed miraculous. It was as if their little yellow, wide mouthed heads were declaring, “Death is real. But so is color and warmth and fresh air and new life.” I noticed all the daffodils that year. Mostly because my friend - the very one who had just endured the most difficult good-bye - would point them out frequently. She found the purest, truest hope in their determination to push through the snow and bare their sunny bodies. Even while she grieved the deepest grief, my friend also experienced joy. Not because of the grief. Not instead of the grief. But right alongside the grief. Tomorrow we will remember the anniversary of Mary’s death. And with that remembering, the sorrow will feel fresh and our hearts more tender. The next day, the calendar will tell us that it is Spring. And if we are watching, the signs of new life will begin to show up all around us. New life and hope. It’s all worth pointing out, don’t you think? Tiny blades of green grass. Full leaf buds on trees. Days with longer light. And those bright daffodils who bravely lead us head-first into Spring every year.   Because pointing these things out is an act of sharing hope. And sharing hope doesn’t mean an absence of grief. It doesn’t mean ignoring what is lost or forgetting pain. But sharing hope will make room for joy and gratitude to exist right alongside the grief. I still miss Mary and my heart aches for my friend. And, at the same time, I’m so thankful that tomorrow is Spring.