When Grief and Joy Share the Same Day

Yesterday I said goodbye to someone I love. And later that same day, I celebrated someone I love.

Grief and joy didn't cancel each other out. They existed together.

Yesterday we laid my Gma Bunnie to rest.

She was a strong woman. Mentally and emotionally strong. A hard worker. Sweet and sassy—and definitely not someone who was going to be pushed around.

She and my Papa raised five kids during a time when they didn't have much. Then, at one point, she was in a terrible car accident and almost died. Doctors told her she might never walk again.

She had a watch me kind of mindset.

And she did.

She walked again—quickly—because apparently being told something couldn't be done was all the motivation she needed.

That was Gma.

There are so many stories that tell you who someone was after they're gone. Yesterday, the preacher shared some beautiful ones, and our family added plenty of laughter of our own.

My dad shared a story about a trip to Mexico when someone tried to pickpocket Papa. His wallet fell to the ground, and before the guy could get away, Gma stepped on the wallet, planted her foot firmly on it—and proceeded to hit the man with her purse.

Honestly, I can't think of a better way to remember her.

Strong. Determined. Protective. And just a little bit sassy.

But yesterday wasn't only about saying goodbye.

Later that day, I got to celebrate my favorite little Leo turning nine.

And when I saw his big, beaming smile and got that hug, my heart just about busted at the seams.

It was a completely different feeling.

Not guilt. Not that I shouldn't be happy.

Just unfamiliar.

I'd never experienced the strange feeling of carrying grief in one hand and joy in the other.

But there it was.

The heaviness of the day didn't disappear. Somehow, though, the laughter made things feel a little lighter.

And I found myself feeling incredibly grateful.

Because standing there celebrating Cooper's ninth birthday, I was reminded of something pretty extraordinary:

Five generations.

Gma Bunnie.
My dad.
Me.
My son.
Cooper.

Five generations of our family.

What a gift.

And I can't help but think Gma Bunnie was celebrating him, too.

She loved her family fiercely. I'm pretty sure she would have wanted us to laugh, hug a little tighter, eat the cake, make the memories—and keep going.

Maybe that's what yesterday taught me.

That life doesn't always give us one emotion at a time.

Sometimes you say goodbye in the morning and celebrate a birthday later that same day.

Sometimes your heart is heavy and full at the exact same time.

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe we're allowed to grieve and laugh.

To miss someone and still make memories.

To feel the heaviness and still notice the joy.

Today, I'm thinking about Gma Bunnie's strength.

Her kindness.

Her determination.

And the way she kept going.

And I'm going to try to do what she did.

Keep going.

But maybe with a little more intention.

To love a little harder today than yesterday.

To give myself grace when life feels heavy.

And to remember that even the hardest seasons are temporary.

This too shall pass.

And in the meantime, there is still so much life to live.