Seven months ago, my maternal grandmother, with whom I was very close, passed away. This week, my mom’s side of the family and I are vacationing in the Outer Banks, our first annual summer trip without her. I hope through sharing my contemplations on our getaway and her absence, those of you who have experienced the pangs of missing someone during the dog days will feel a little more seen.
Mourning in the summer feels different than mourning in the winter. Summertime grief doesn’t wrap itself up in a blanket and retreat to a fire or a warmer bed. Instead, it seems as though it asks you to bask in the blinding sunlight.
It summons you to enjoy a refreshing sour lemonade and encourages you to seek God on a jostling boat amid an open, deep and dark, glistening ocean. It rudely reminds you that in different circumstances and before their death, these are things you actually might have been more appreciative of.
Grief can’t be as easily tucked away on vacation. It refuses to take time off.
It’s harder to conceal when everyone’s together because there’s an obvious empty seat at the restaurant’s table and one less swimsuit hanging out to dry. Another outlet is available for an additional charging device.
The number of opinions on tourist photo-op locations has decreased and we can’t ignore the fact that the howls of group laughter now don’t include a familiar chuckle. Grief doesn’t demand you notice it in a room. Instead, it sits in the corner in silence and waits for you to say hello.
Yet, just as quickly as grief slips in through unassuming avenues like lemonade and water vessels, it drifts out, creating room for a bulky and unsuspecting, God-sized peace and joy.
At times, imagining if my grandmother had been on our trip with us this week has made me giggle. She would have been annoyed by walking up the steep steps leading to our Airbnb, and it not being directly on the beach.
I can envision her poking fun at the way we fold towels and shake sand all over the house. Her stubborn nature was a sight to see.
Between giggles and introspection, I have also realized how holy it has been to spend uninterrupted time with my grandfather and to get to know him even better, independent of who I knew him to be in a relationship with my grandmother.
We say “I love you” with less restraint. We experience joy a little more recklessly together, less hesitant to lean into humor, because we know how fleeting it can be.
I hope the afterlife has a version of our vacation for her to experience as well. I hope she’s proud of my grandfather.
I hope she doesn’t feel left out or far away. I hope she isn’t homesick.
I hope God allows postcards to be sent from our hearts to heaven. I hope she has a big stack of cards and letters to open.
The Spirit of Remembrance is here with us this week. I’d like to remind you that it’s with you, too.
It beckons us to listen to the uncomfortable emptiness and asks us to join hands in love for all the people who are still present. It guides us to an understanding that death and grief are what we have in common.
Let us be kind to one another, sharing in our mourning and peaceful joy, especially this summer. Because grief can’t take a vacation.
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Anna Parish, originally from Auburn, Alabama, earned a B.S. in Applied Health Sciences from Troy University and is currently in her second year of the M.Div. program at Campbell University Divinity School. She serves as an intern at Hayes Barton Baptist Church in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she enjoys walking alongside people of all ages as they explore their callings. Anna is passionate about cultivating authentic communities through holistic spiritual development. She is pursuing a vocation in hospital chaplaincy and authorship and is interested in religious social science research and preaching.
