On Friday, Ken and I will be heading up to St. Augustine, Florida. I have a final job to do as Carina's mother. Ken and I spent our 1-year anniversary in St. Augustine and it holds a special place in our hearts. It will soon hold a special place for another reason.
When we first found out about Carina's diagnosis, after the initial shock wore off and we realized we had to start making some plans, we decided to have her cremated. Then came the decision of what to do after that. I knew I didn't want to have her ashes sitting in some jar. (No offense to anyone who has done that, or wants to do that, it's just not something I wanted.) I also didn't want to put them just anywhere. Ken suggested the beach but I knew every time we would go to that beach, or passed by that beach, it would be a sad remembrance for me. I wanted to put her ashes somewhere that would be a purposeful place. Somewhere we could go and visit with a purpose. Somewhere close to our hearts. And so we decided on St. Augustine.
This weekend we will drive up and find the perfect spot. Some secluded, shady, flowery, beautiful place meant just for her. Maybe by the water because I know she would have loved the water just like her sister and Daddy. It's silly, I know, because she's not really going to be there. And no matter how beautiful a spot we find, it can never compare with the beauty of heaven. I know it's not really for her, but for me. I need to pretend. I need to pretend that part of her is still here. Just for awhile. I'm still not ready to let go.
The funeral director came by again today to drop off the death certificate and some little card that tells what date the cremation took place. I want to burn them both. But I'll keep them in the special box my brother made for all things Carina related because every little piece I have of her life, good and bad, is so precious. Have you ever played the "if there was a fire what's the one thing I would grab after everyone got out safely" game? Over the years my answer has changed. Today I would grab the box. I don't think I'll change my mind anymore. I need those memories. I don't ever want to forget what she looked like. What she smelled like. Her perfect feet. Her dark hair. I'm just not ready to let go.
As a Christian, grief looks different. I think I've said that before. Tears look the same but they come from a heart of hope instead of a heart of fear. You can't be comforted from someone who hasn't been there. That's why you can always turn to Jesus. He has been overwhelmed by grief. He has felt the pain of loss; felt like all the air is sucked away. He has felt it all and He gets it. Seeing Jesus as someone who has felt sorrows just like us is a confirmation that tears don't mean "lack of faith." They are actually a companion to authentic faith. Hebrews 5:8 says, "Although He was God's Son, He learned obedience through what He suffered."
Obedience is a continual process. It takes work. Commitment. Faith. Tears are a byproduct. I'm thankful for the opportunity to be obedient. To share my faith. To have the tears. But I'm not ready to let go yet.
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