Our little wildflower girl. Yours is an untamed life planted not in any kind of mannerly row, but in a hidden, marvelous pattern known only to you and to God – impossibly perfect in its imperfection. No planter, no garden, no field is capable of containing your spirit; not even earth was able to hold you for very long.

These past two years since mom died have felt as if mom is simply in the next room, just out of view. If I look hard enough, maybe I’d find her. If I call her name loud enough maybe she’d hear me. See me. Find me. Help me.

If I had to choose one word to describe our 2019, it would be “rest” (sand and sunshine not included).

2019 was like attempting naptime with a toddler during a party after ingesting what should be an illegal amount of sugar and having thrown any hint of routine out the window hours ago.

The slower pace I created for myself in October allowed extra breathing room, and staying fairly disconnected from social media made it less overwhelming.

You’d think after three years situations like this wouldn’t affect me so strongly, but in the same way that we go from crawling to walking, grief also changes and evolves with time. 

These seasonal transitions are tough, babe. We move from summer to fall once more, but you’re still gone. The undeniable passage of time is a halting reminder of the permanence of death.

But hand in hand with grief, the changing seasons are also a reminder of life and the simple fact that we’re still here living it.

And what a beautiful privilege that is.