I have this special friend who did this special thing.
A few years ago, this special friend presented a request to her buddy in Colorado — someone I have never met; a photographer. She asked him to capture a sunrise. A very specific sunrise. A February 24, 2016 sunrise.
This friend knew my story. She knew that one year earlier, the sun rose on my cloudiest day — a day that left me stumbling in an unfamiliar, unwelcome valley. My heart’s broken pieces were scattered in the darkness. Shadows loomed. Yet I quickly discovered…
Shadows indicate the presence of light.
This February, I want to remember the light — people’s very best showing up in life’s very worst.
Light.
Hours after our dad passed away, our doorbell rang. And it rang again. And it continued to ring as tenderhearted souls appeared on our doorstep with spaghetti, warm soup, tacos, breakfast pastries, coffee, paper plates, pizza, salad, baked goods, candy, gentle smiles, and genuine sympathy. Between my mom, my siblings, and each of our families, sixteen of us were under one roof. Our bellies and our hearts were abundantly nourished, and planning a meal was one less thing we had to think about.
Light.
My best friends devised a plan during those initial blurry days. They decided that at least one of them would be accessible at a moment’s notice. An on-call schedule, of sorts. They coordinated their availability and adjusted their responsibilities… just in case a grieving girlfriend needed them. One of those friends met me at the mall. She sat in the play area with my two-year-old daughter and six-month-old son as I shopped for outfits for their grandpa’s funeral. Another of those friends compiled a grocery list to ensure our family had plenty of milk, orange juice, fresh fruit, baby food, bottled water, bread, and other essentials. A couple of those friends put themselves in charge of holding my children as I read my dad’s eulogy. And all of those friends, one-by-one, stopped by my childhood home and simply sat with me.
Light.
Beautiful flowers – accompanied by messages of love and sympathy – were delivered to our house and decorated our dad’s memorial service. Plants added life to our brokenness.
Light.
Text messages, phone calls, and social media posts echoed sentiments of care and concern. Warmth came pouring in from every corner of the country. We were thought of. We were prayed for. We were not alone.
Light.
The time inevitably came for me to return to Orlando and resume day-to-day living. I can tell you very honestly, it was no easy feat. Grief is like running a marathon in thick, wet cement. It doesn’t make any sense and every step requires concentrated energy. A few weeks after my dad passed away, I wrote this Facebook post — “It has been three weeks. It feels so long, it feels so short, it feels so sucky.” In no time at all, a sweet friend sent me this text — “I want to bring you dinner. Something you can freeze and take out on a day you feel sucky so you don’t have to cook.” Gosh, I love that. Another sweet friend dropped off his signature Cuban pork, rice, and beans because he knew it was my favorite. Another sweet friend simply asked if she could stop by during a break from work — she was living in a world without her dad too. Another sweet friend (who doubles as my husband) offered me space and grace and unconditional love. And multiple sweet friends gave me some of the most thoughtful mementos I have ever received.
Light.
In times of sorrow – when a heart is hurting and you aren’t quite sure what to do – just DO. Show up. Be light.
Be someone’s sunrise on the other side of the bridge.
In the words of my special friend — “The sun will always rise. No matter what trials or tribulations we are going through in our lives, it will be there presenting us with the opportunity of a new day. A day to find new strength, peace, and comfort. A day to spread kindness, hope, and love.”