Since the funerals of my grandparents, I haven’t pushed the kids to attend every service. However, there are a few I deem as “important,” not for the sake of how well we knew the individual, but for the sake of showing love to those left behind.

These lessons are not simple but necessary for navigating life. As the adage goes, “No one gets out of this life alive.” No matter the age of your children, be clear when talking about death. Saying “they passed away” or “they didn’t make it” is vague and confusing.

As a Christian, I do not believe that death is the end of the story. However, there is still finality. For our time on this side of eternity, death is permanent. We can no longer see, hear, talk with, or hug the one who has died. Yet we have hope. We can be sad that our loved one is gone, relieved that their suffering is over, and joyful that the story isn’t over. Each of the emotions we experience is okay. It is important to teach your children that they are allowed to feel all the things.

Some services are more difficult than others, just as some losses are more complicated than others. Know yourself and your child(ren) well enough to pick up on cues. Some children are tender-hearted and tearful, some become overwhelmed by the emotions and people in the room, and some may seem stoic and unmoved. Meet them where they are, talk openly and honestly, and give them the kind of space they need. As long as they are safe, I allow my children to go to a different room if necessary.

The last lesson is minding what you say to the grieving. It is enough to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” You don’t have to say anything else. Remember that Job’s friends were a great comfort to him until they spoke. Do share your memories of the person and how much you will miss them. Avoid asking questions that require the grieving person to make a decision. “Let me know if you need anything” is a nice sentiment, but in grief, a person may not know what they need. Offer something instead. “I’m going to bring a meal over on such and such a date, if that works for you.” You remove a burden but also leave it open.

After my friend’s mom died, we only had a week until ballet performance. I told her I would take care of the meal plan that week since we would be together anyway. She didn’t have to make any decisions; she only had to show up on time—a big enough challenge during grief!

Funerals are not fun, but you can experience joy even in sorrow. Grief is a process. Grief looks different from day to day. Grief comes in waves, some small and others like a tsunami. Some you wade through, some bury you, but eventually, you learn to surf.

During the spring of 2020, canceled events gave me time to reconnect with contacts from years of craft shows and vendor events. As I worked through the names, the events themselves brought back memories.

In November 2015, I met a beautiful, smiling 13-year-old Aranza. She greeted me like we’d known each other always. She laughed with me and enjoyed my sense of humor. We joked and shared sarcasm and puns. She trained me in doing shows, and at 13, she amazed me. I think I watched her more than I did anything that day. At 13 years old, her mama could trust her to run a booth—from greeting customers, to demonstrating, to counting correct change! From that day on, when she saw me, she asked about my business—not in a casual way, but in the way someone asks when they know what it takes and they really want to know how you’re doing.

In February of 2017, I did a big show with Aranza and her mother, who had become one of my closest friends. By this time, I viewed Aranza as something like a niece. We continued our banter and enjoyed each other’s company during this event. I again watched as she amazed the customers, even making an impression on a young girl, probably about nine, who said, “I want to do this!” I made some great contacts through this event.

As I entered my contacts from 2017 into my customer service manager, I noticed something that stopped me.

Aranza’s handwriting.

The unexpected wave crushed me. A life lived to the fullest, just shy of 17 years, cut short by the actions of another. A life that touched so many others—she made waves instead of ripples.

In that moment, my grief was less about what happened, more about missing her presence, but most about Homesickness.

Since August 8, I’ve said Aranza’s fingerprints are in the way I run my business. Here, I could actually see the mark she left behind.

Grief has a way of appearing in places we don’t expect—in an old contact list, familiar handwriting, or a memory tucked into an ordinary task.

As a Believer, I have a confident expectation of being reunited with my loved ones.

In the meantime, fingerprints are everywhere.

When I was five years old, my father preached a sermon in which he talked about his mother dying. Well, this was news to me, as I’d just seen my grandparents both alive and well not too long before. My mother realized very quickly that I was not only paying attention but also very upset, thinking Grandma was dead. She explained that my dad’s mother died when he was seven years old and that Grandpa remarried, so I had two Grandmas. My parents did not keep this information from us; this is simply the age when the information “clicked” in my brain. Though I didn’t know that first Grandma, I lost her that day.

Fast forward 17 years to 2002. I had just graduated from college and had a couple of weeks left in on-campus housing before moving into my new apartment. I received a call that my Grandpa had passed away. He had been in the hospital with complications after heart surgery, and the prognosis had gone back and forth, but the loss was still unexpected.

My college minister and his wife helped me move the rest of my belongings into my new apartment so I could be cleared with housing. My flight home was my first post-9/11 flight. With a one-way ticket and only a small carry-on, I became a red flag for additional screening. The screener put my toiletry bag back into the larger bag upside down, which meant my contact case was upside down, too. This still aggravates me.

I remember walking down the steps toward the area where people met arriving passengers and seeing my dad. We cried as we embraced. So many people came to the memorial service to honor a gospel preacher of just over 50 years. I learned a lot about Grandpa that day, which made the loss more complicated.

Yesterday, my Grandma died. She’s been unwell for a while. Her suffering is finally over. Like Grandpa, she spent a lifetime in the Lord’s service, teaching Bible classes, helping with church secretarial tasks, typing for my grandfather, leading Ladies’ Bible studies, and generally serving alongside her husband as a preacher’s wife.

Here is what my own father wrote about his mother for his church bulletin:

On February 14, 1960, fifty-five years ago, a Christian woman named Mary became my second mother. When she married my dad she knew the job that lay ahead. She became “instant mama” to three sons: a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, and a five-month-old. Many women would have run from such a task, but my mother took on the challenge and met it well. She encouraged me to become a preacher, provided a listening ear, and gave me the little sister I wanted. My first memory of hearing the phrase “treated like a stepchild” was as a young adult. I didn’t comprehend what it meant. Technically I was a stepson, but I never felt like one. Yesterday mother went home to be with the Lord. Although mom was eighty-four years old, for her children and grandchildren her death was still too early. I’m thankful to God for two wonderful mothers: the one who bore me and the one who finished molding me.

Grandpa asked me during many visits when I was going to get married and start having great-grandbabies. He died five years before I married and six years before his first great-grandbaby was born. I am so glad that my Grandma lived long enough to meet both of my babies in person.

I didn’t take any pictures of our last visit because she didn’t look like herself, and I wanted to remember her as she is in these pictures. Our visits were not as often as I would have preferred, but distance, her poor health, and my son’s severe allergy to cats all acted as barriers.

I made efforts to call regularly, even while living in Germany. I set an alarm on my phone with Acappella’s “I’m Gonna Keep on Workin’ ’Til He Comes” so I would remember to call at a good time despite the time difference. The song fits her personality. She taught Ladies’ Bible Study until she felt unable to give it her best effort and continued participating until worsening health made even that impossible.

In all of my phone calls with her, she told me she was proud of me, that I am a good mom, and that she loved me. Just as my dad never felt like he wasn’t really her son, I’ve never felt like less than her granddaughter.

This week, we prepare for a family reunion of sorts as we gather to say an earthly goodbye to Grandma.

I am so glad to be a Christian, to have hope beyond this life, and to know that the end of Grandma’s suffering on this earth is the beginning of a beautiful, joy-filled, pain-free eternity.