Garment of Grief, Garment of Grace

Written by: Betty Predmore (Cassie’s mom)

The last five months have taught me a lot about who I am. I have discovered that I am not as strong as I thought I was, or as I would have others believe I am. I wrestle with that because I WANT to be strong. I TRY to be strong for those around me, but I know that I often fall short.

Grief will teach you a lot about yourself. It will take everything you thought you ever knew and turn it upside down. It forces you to accept who you REALLY are, outside the bravado of your words, or the expectations of others.

I have known grief in my life. I have dealt with the pain of losing a parent, a step-parent, a grandparent, a beloved friend. Those moments were all extremely difficult, and I still wrestle with them on my darker days.

As hard as those moments were, they are nothing compared to the grief of losing our sweet Haven. A grandchild is such a precious thing, and I have found my greatest joy in mine. I was the first to know that Cassie and Marco were having a girl, the perfect complement to my sweet Sully. I made the cupcakes, inserting pink into only one. They were ecstatic! 

We planned. Her nursery, her coming home outfit, her first Thanksgiving, her first Christmas … all talked about and seen fully on the big screen of our minds. I imagined my Tuesdays and Thursdays, filled with little gurgles and tiny fingers wrapped around mine. We pictured Sully learning to love and care for his little Sissy, which he would have done so wonderfully.

To have those plans taken from us was a trauma and pain that you have to walk through to understand. One minute you are planning the holidays, the next minute she is gone. Life can seem so cruel, so unreal, so unimaginable.

The grief of a grandparent is unique. You have the emotions of loss for your grandchild and the hopes and dreams you had for her. But on top of that loss is another level of grief that is absolutely heart-wrenching. The pain of watching your child suffer through the loss of their child is unspeakable. It is an agony that is so absolute and almost unbearable. Most of the time, I tuck my own pain away and only let it out in my quiet moments. She is so burdened by her own pain, that I don’t want her to carry the load of my grief. 

This loss has brought a new level to our relationship. Sometimes it is only a look, other times it is a softly spoken, “I’m having a hard day.” But we understand each other. We know the pain of missing Haven. And sometimes I watch my son-in-law wrestle with his grief and it cuts me like a knife. I would give anything to take this pain from them. 

Grief is like a garment you wear. A big, heavy garment of dark gray that you try to take off but the zipper is stuck. You can’t get it over your head; you can’t get your arms through it. You are simply stuck inside with no way out, no light at the end of the tunnel.

Mamas are supposed to fix what is wrong, make it all better. Mamas are supposed to have the answers to every “why” and the solution to every “how”. I have no answer to why or how. I have no words of explanation that relieves my daughter’s pain or even make it more bearable. I have no band aid big enough to cover up the wound in her heart. 

So, what do I do? I try to just be there. I cry with her when she cries. I hold her when she needs a hug. I love her son with everything in me, and I patiently encourage her as she struggles with what comes next.

There are no perfect answers. There is no final healing. The pain lingers, always subtly in the place in your heart that was meant for your precious grandbaby. You put her teddy bear on your shelf and place an eternal candle next to it, just for the small amount of comfort it gives you. You wear her picture in a bracelet on your wrist so you can have her with you wherever you go. You store all her belongings in your attic because it makes you feel like a piece of her is with you.

As much as you wear that garment of grief, you must also wear a garment of grace. Grace for the times you are not strong. Grace for the nights you go to bed with a wet pillowcase, or wake up and remember, and it literally takes your breath away. Grace as you smile when a friend announces their pregnancy, even though you don’t feel their joy. Grace, when you stand in the middle of a store crying because you saw the cutest little outfit and for just the briefest of milliseconds you forgot that there is no granddaughter to buy it for, and when the realization hits you it is unbearable. Grace because each of those moments and a million more make you upset with yourself because you are not as strong as you thought you were.

You give yourself grace when you get mad at God, when you ask him why he would do this to your family. When you struggle to match the God you know with a god who would bring this pain. And you give yourself grace when you cry through a worship song at church because you know you serve a good and loving Father, and that even though the pain is so deeply there, you know He is holding you and your loved ones tight. And you know that with eternity comes reunion, and what a beautiful day that will be.

For the past five months, I have watched my grandchildren play together. Those are some of my most treasured moments. But there is a new layer to them now … a layer of pain because the littlest one is not there. She would’ve been our “baby”, younger than the rest, doted on by her uncles, cherished by her aunts, and absolutely adored by her grandparents. We will never hear her squeals of laughter as she is chased around the kitchen island. I will never sway her in my arms while I sing “Dancing with my Grammy”. She will never tell me she loves me “all the muches” like her brother does so freely. All the would-have-beens that will never be. Those thoughts sometimes hit me harder than a wall of bricks, and I struggle just to breathe.

But there is comfort to be found in knowing that while she is not being held by me, or her mommy and daddy, she is being held by her Father in Heaven. I imagine her there, in his arms as he gazes at her with the greatest of love. I imagine her surrounded by the generations of our family that have gone before, being doted on and loved with a love that goes beyond the love we know, because it is a love filled with the joy and enormity of heaven. When I think of her there, it seems almost selfish to want her here with us. But I do … every single minute. 

Another thing you find out about yourself is that grief is a little bit selfish. It is wanting her here to ease our own longing, when in fact, she is in the most beautiful and joyful place she could ever be. 

I guess I also need grace for my selfishness. Because I would give anything to see her in her mama’s arms and see her mama smile with the sheer joy of having her. I would give anything to hear her laugh and touch her face. I would give anything to see her there on the floor, playing with her cousins, protected by her brother.

I would give anything to relieve her mama of the pain she feels. Her pain is my pain, and I will carry it with me until the moment I leave this earth. Until then… God give me grace.