I wish somebody would have told me babe
Some day, these will be the good old days
All the love you won’t forget
And all these reckless nights you won’t regret
Someday soon, your whole life’s gonna change
You’ll miss the magic of these good old days

-Good Old Days (Macklemore & Ke$ha)

Grief is a strange thing. I tend to not feel the pain and face the grief of someone close to me until a later, “safer” time. I am the rock, the strong one in those first days and weeks, the one the family needs to lean on. But then, later, a quieter time when I am alone and don’t expect it to show up… it does. It seems like the grief takes the longest to come out for those closest to me. Perhaps this is a direct result of my profound wall-building ability, or maybe I run from it.

Geneva Mabe Tucker, my Nana. She was the greatest person I have ever known. She helped to raise me. She kept me from a baby, then once I started school I got on and off the bus at her house and stayed until mama got off work. She was my great-grandma, but I don’t usually feel that adequately portrays the importance of her on my life, so I always refer to her as My Nana. She lived a fierce life. She was the strongest woman, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. She lived her life by example for sure. This is one of the biggest lessons I got from her. She loved BIG, but often in quiet ways.

Nana had a stroke on the night of Thanksgiving the year my oldest son was one. She got somewhat better, but never back to her living-alone-mowing-her-own-yard-with-the-push-mower-at-91 self. That was really hard for her, and that marks the turning point. She never wanted to be a burden on anyone, and she certainly wanted to not be in charge of her own self. For 5 years she lived with my grandma, her only daughter. Not being independent and self sufficient took a toll on her spirit; she became a shell of who she once was. During those years after the stroke, I felt like I had already lost her.

It took me almost 3 years for the grief to set in. Of course I missed her and was sad when she crossed into Heaven, but the full gamut wasn’t yet realized. It comes out as sadness sometimes, but mostly it is this deep closeness of her memory and wanting to live like she did. Loss wrecks some people to the point that they never fully return to themselves. They begin to identify themselves in terms of that loss. This is the biggest pitfall we can make. It isn’t fair to ourselves, those we still have, or to the memory of the one we lose. No one wants their loved ones to become so paralyzed after their death that the themselves cease to live. That sadness will never leave us, and we shouldn’t expect it to. In stead, it is so much better to lean into the love and live their memory every day. We may have lost a person that is home to us, but we can embody all of those feelings and be intentional about honoring the memories, showing the love, and living a life that reflects that person.

Nana is a perfect embodiment of this feeling of home that I so desperately want to preserve and pass down. I think that’s why she was so important to so many people. There are lots of people who will claim that she helped raise them, and I think that is because she felt like home. This is the first step to handing down home, to decide to live.

What makes you feel home? Is there someone you love whose memory you cherish? Have you chosen to live, or are you stuck in the grief of the loss?

I’d love to hear your story!