One month ago today, I received the life-changing news that my precious granddaughter, Azalea, died. She was exactly 8 weeks old. It spun our world around to lose that little bundle of preciousness and joy. (Read Part 1: A Grandma’s Story.)

Was that really just a month ago? Because in a way, it seems like four months. So much has happened, both heartbreaking and beautiful. I feel like I’m a different person than I was 31 days ago.

And yet, has a month already flown by? How can we have lived another month of life without our sweet baby Azalea? Wasn’t it yesterday that we had such a heavenly service and laid her sweet little body to rest in a tiny white casket?

It’s a crazy time warp. I think grief does that to a person. I have alternately raced and trudged through these 30 days, occasionally not even knowing what day it was. 

There have been restless, sleepless nights and whole days have been spent on the couch, with very little to eat or drink. Thousands of tears have run down my face. Yes. My faith is strong and I know we will be together again but I just miss her. 

So… it’s been a month. Shouldn’t I be doing better now that it’s been a whole month? Why then, does this day feel like one of the toughest since that first shattering day?

I can’t figure out the answer. Maybe there is no set answer because grief shows itself so differently to every person who experiences it.

Someone texted me the other day: “Most days, grief is like gentle waves lapping at you and you can manage it. But then, there are days when a rogue wave hits and completely overwhelms you.”

Our little one passed quietly… Unexpectedly. The autopsy results up to this point have shown no known cause.

If nothing else is discovered, the cause will likely be listed on the death certificate as SIDS, or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. 

I’ve heard that dreaded acronym and phrase ever since I had my first baby prematurely 28 years ago. My son was born with breathing difficulties and my worst fear was that he might fall victim to this syndrome. I barely slept during his first six months, trying to prevent it.

Over the years, I have met and mourned with people whose babies have inexplicably stopped breathing,  and I have prayed this unimaginable grief would never touch me or anyone I love.

But here we are, dealing with the very thing I hoped would never come. 

You might think it’s not so hard for a grandma to deal with the loss of a grandchild. But once you become a grandparent, you fall completely in love… Crazy, inexplicable, gaga love. Such was my adoration for this child whom I had helped prepare for, care for and said many a prayer for.  When she left us, it felt like a hole had been punched through my heart, leaving an aching, gnawing void.

And then, I see my daughter. No one could have loved a baby more, nor borne such a heavy loss so heroically.  She has bravely pressed forward, continuously revising her vision of what the future would look like… putting herself in God’s hands. I’m so proud of her. I’m amazed at her strength. But I know her. I am her mother. She is a dearest child of my heart.  I feel her broken heart. I mourn with her. I mourn with her husband and little girl. 

If I could have, I would have given my life to save Azalea and spare them this monumental sorrow. 

From two states away, I do what I can to help them put the pieces of their lives back together again. But, of course, nothing can ever be the same again. For here was a greatly beloved child around whom family life had revolved. Her mommy and daddy had been making plans for her future for nearly 11 months.  And now, there’s an empty space where there used to be a sweet baby girl.

We called our daughter tonight and found this one month mark has been pretty tough for them, too. 

She’d had a migraine headache most of the day.  She and her husband and little girl decided to take a quiet walk on a nearby beach to clear their minds and try to get perspective. The clouds of grief lifted slightly, as they took in God’s beautiful creations and let the rhythm of the waves lull them into a peaceful place.

Later, she and I talked on the phone about life and death and heaven and earth and cried a bit.  It’s all a part of God’s plan for us. We totally get that. We believe it with our whole souls. 

But some days are just hard. And sometimes, you just have to let the waves of sorrow roll for a bit. 

In my moments of deepest sorrow, I often also feel peace and tiny pinpoints of joy.  I know. It makes no sense. At these times, I know,  with no doubt,  that Jesus, my Savior, is right here with me, holding me, comforting me and carrying me.  I know he loves me and has already felt what I’m feeling. 

And so I surrender it all to him… the sorrow, the trauma, the fear…  He takes it on willingly.

Because sometimes, when you’re so heartbroken, you don’t know what to do, you just have to let him take over completely and let the waves of peace roll in.