Grow Through the Grief

Grief, I’ve found, is universally the same. What makes it different is the way each individual chooses to face it. Some face it the way they face life or love; deeply and intensely. In this case, tears are typically involved. And if you’re like me, a lot of tears are involved. Some handle it quietly. Almost as if tranquility radiates from within them. These are the ones that easily accept God’s peace and joy in their lives and use it to conquer any situation. They’re notably strong.

However, not everyone is gifted with such grace. There are also the ones that deal with it in hostility and anger. They use their hurt and take it out on anything they can get their hands on. Themselves, their family, the world, and maybe even God.

Then there are those that don’t handle it at all. They run in the opposite direction, all the while deluding themselves into believing they’re faster than the grief. That the pain will never catch up to them. That they’ll never have to look it in the eye. But the problem with this is that they’ve lied to themselves for so long that they’re not prepared for the pain when it inevitably reaches them. This causes them to feel it with more severity. They used up all their strength

on a wasted attempt to flee from it, leaving none left to help them cope.

But again, no matter how you deal with your grief and heartache, it ends the same for everyone. It ends with change. Because things can’t and won’t be the same ever again. And how could it? Someone you loved is gone. Gone to a place you can’t follow (at least not yet). Things will never go “back” to normal. Instead, you’re forced to face the reality of a new normal. Depending on how well you do with change, this could take some time.

And that’s okay. You know why? Because the grieving process is also the healing process. It takes time for something to properly heal. If it’s rushed, it won’t heal the way it should. All those fragmented pieces would end up in the wrong places, and a recovery from that could be much more grueling.

Grief is very new to me. The pain that it’s brought has come and gone in waves, all variating in size. Some of which I’ve handled well, while others nearly drowned me. And that’s why I’m infinitely grateful that I’m not in this alone. I have an entire family swimming through these waves right along with me. When one of us falls under, we'll always have others there prepared to pull us back over the waves. We’re here for each other, now more than ever.

In my head, I keep repeating this line we’ve all heard about a thousand times from a small, slightly confused, but legendary blue fish named Dory.

Just keep swimming.

Below I’ve added the letter I wrote for Mammaw, which was read at her funeral on Friday December 27, 2019. I wasn’t sure if I was going to post it with this, but I figured she deserves for as many people as possible to know how truly astoundingly she lived her life.

Norma Joyce Coleman.

A daughter.

A sister.

A friend.

A wife.

A mother.

A grandmother.

A leader.

A minister.

I could write a list a mile long, and still I don’t think I could fully encompass all she was to this world. To the people she loved, to those who loved her. And she loved deeply.

But to me, she was simply Mammaw. Though maybe “simply” is the wrong word. Much like most remarkable women, she wasn’t simple. She was complicated. There were a million little complex pieces that made her who she was. Yes, her family knew her best, but I think there are only two people in this world who truly knew each of those pieces for everything they were. God and her beloved husband. I find that fitting, as those were the two people she loved most.

When I was younger, I liked to just sit and watch Mammaw and Pappaw interact with each other, especially when they didn’t know I was doing it. This was the case more often than not as the two of them had the astonishing ability to erase everyone else from existence, leaving only them. Sometimes they’d be sharing a look with each other, and you knew they were speaking a language no one else was fluent in. Other times they’d be laughing at old jokes they’d both heard a million times, the punch line never ceasing to make them giggle. Or they’d just sit quietly with one another. Peaceful. Still.

They had that movie kind of love. Rare and without end. A love that remained sincerely pure despite the state of the world we live in. This all comes from the perspective of their granddaughter, someone who’s only known them for 21 years. It makes me wonder how immense the love must feel to them.

As the years went by, they instilled that love into their children. Then their grandchildren. And then their great-grandchildren. They built a legacy, half of which came straight from her. Not only would this family physically be non-existent without her, but who we became would be lost. What we believe in. Our standards. Our goals.

She taught us to love. To love each other, and ourselves.

She taught us what good food really tastes like.

She taught the girls how to be ladies, and the boys how to be gentlemen.

She taught us how to garden and pick berries.

She taught us to be bold and strong. To fight for what we want.

She taught us to pay attention and listen to others. She had the way of making even the most unlikely person feel special, like family.

She taught us about God. That above all else, we must be saved. To look at church and our faith as a lifestyle to be proud of, something that needed to be shared. I know beyond a shadow of any doubt that her prayers held power. If she was at an altar praying for someone, she didn’t stop until she felt God himself touch that person and answer that prayer. She was the epitome of a willing vessel.

I’d never met a person as resilient as she was, and I don’t think I ever will again. She lived her life fighting sickness after sickness, and still managed to be everything she needed to be. She put her pain on the back burner so she could help someone else with theirs.

Her stature may have been small, but her strength reached farther heights than the tallest person to ever walk this earth.

Now, as I try to imagine her heavenly body, I like to picture it reflecting how I always viewed her through my child-like eyes.

Strong. Beautiful. Fierce. Impenetrable. Lovely. Mighty.

Norma Joyce Coleman was a lot of things.

I’m just glad I got to call her Mammaw.