Together Again

This morning we begin preparing for Grandma Chris's Mass and burial.

As I sit quietly with my coffee, I notice something unexpected. I don't feel overwhelmed by sadness. More than anything, I feel grateful.

I'm grateful that I had so many conversations with Grandma Chris in these last years. Grateful that I got to bake sourdough bread for her, take her to the dentist, and simply spend time with her. Those ordinary moments have become extraordinary gifts. I'm grateful for a lifetime of memories.

I feel especially honored that she trusted me to help her prepare for what she knew was coming. She asked me if I would help her choose her urn and the keepsake urns for her grandchildren. I've often wondered why she asked me. Maybe losing Matt changed the way I talk about death. I don't know. I never asked. I only know that it was a privilege to help her make those decisions.

She picked each one herself. She chose hummingbirds because they were her favorite.

What a privilege that was.

I think losing Matt changed something deep inside me. After Matt was murdered, my relationship with death changed forever. I no longer see it as something to avoid talking about or pretend won't come. Instead, I've come to believe there is a gift in preparing and in making your wishes known. I love that Grandma Chris was able to choose the urn she wanted, the one that reflected who she was.

This morning, though, I noticed another feeling quietly making its way into my heart.

Today Grandma Chris will be placed beside Matt.

I found myself wondering what that moment will look like. Will I see Matt's black chrome casket with his license plate on the end? Will those memories come rushing back?

Then I realized I'm trying to prepare myself for something I know nothing about.

The truth is, I have no idea how the funeral home will place Grandma Chris's hummingbird urn beside Matt. I don't know what I'll see or how I'll feel in that moment.

And maybe I don't need to know.

What I do know is this: Matt never had the chance to make these decisions. He never chose a casket. He never told us what kind of service he wanted. Those choices were stolen from him, and we had to make them while living through every parent's worst nightmare.

Grandma Chris was given something different. She was given the gift of choosing.

There is something beautiful about that.

As I prepare for today, I don't want to fill my mind with assumptions or fears about how it will unfold. I want to simply be present.

In the end, the details aren't what matter most.

What matters is that Grandma Chris will be exactly where she wanted to be.

Together again with Matt.

And somehow, in the grand scheme of things, that brings me peace.