Yesterday, I learned that someone who had once been a very important part of my life had died.
And today, I can’t seem to stop crying.
For about five years, off and on, he had been an important part of my world. We hadn’t been together for years, although we stayed in touch, and I had seen him just a few months ago. Our lives had moved in different directions a long time ago, but I never stopped being incredibly fond of him.
How could I?
He was one of the kindest men I’ve ever known.
He listened. Really listened. We could talk for hours about everything imaginable. He was extraordinarily intelligent, but he never made me feel stupid or dismissed something simply because he saw it differently. He was quiet and introverted, almost my opposite in some ways, and I think he genuinely enjoyed hearing about all the people I met, the places I traveled and whatever adventure I had gotten myself into this time.
And he had this voice.
Lord have mercy, that voice.
It was deep and rich and beautiful, the kind of voice you could listen to forever. And yes, I had an absolutely ridiculous attraction to him. Some things simply do not require further explanation.
But what I remember most today isn’t the attraction. It’s his kindness.
He remembered the little things. My favorite drinks would be waiting in his refrigerator. If they weren’t, we’d stop and get them on the way. He knew what kind of wine I liked. He paid attention to things I said and remembered them later.
They were tiny things, really. But sometimes tiny things are how we know we’ve been seen.
A few months ago, unexpectedly, I got one more evening with him. I ended up with tickets to see Pentatonix almost at the last minute, and I immediately thought of him because I knew he would enjoy it.
So I sent him a message.
He said absolutely.
He even drove his beautiful new car three miles down a dirt road to pick me up. I warned him about the road. I told him he didn’t have to come all the way out there.
He didn’t care.
He came anyway.
And he looked wonderful. He had lost a tremendous amount of weight. His diabetes was under control. He was eating well. He told me he felt better than he had in years.
He was making plans.
He was going to travel.
Life was moving forward.
And then, just a few months later, he went in for what should have been a routine medical matter. They found cancer. It was aggressive.
Two months later, he was gone.
Just like that.
Just Like That
I’ve been thinking about those three words ever since I heard the news, because I’ve lived those words before.
My dad was 64 years old when he had an accident.
Sixty-four.
I hadn’t even thought about the number until today. My friend who died yesterday was only one year older than my dad had been.
My dad was perfectly healthy one day. Then there was an accident. I got four precious days with him in the hospital, and within a week, we were planning his funeral.
Just like that.
Years later, my mother had Parkinson’s disease. We knew she had health problems, of course, but then came a phone call telling her that her kidneys had stopped functioning. Seven weeks later, she was gone. We were fortunate to have that time with her, and I will always be grateful for it. But seven weeks is still seven weeks.
Then there was my cousin. She and I were the only girl cousins in our family. She had already experienced the sudden loss of her own mother not long after I lost mine.
Then came another call.
There had been a car accident.
My cousin was gone.
She was 55.
My age.
Another cousin I grew up with, someone I loved dearly, died suddenly after crashing into another vehicle. There were questions about whether something had happened with his heart immediately before the accident, but ultimately the result was the same.
He was here.
And then he wasn’t.
I remember being much younger and hearing that one of the boys from my high school class had died. He was brilliant, quiet and kind. He had married and had children, and we were all still at an age when life seemed to be beginning. People our age weren’t supposed to die.
Except they did.
Another high school friend had been born with serious heart problems and had already survived far longer than doctors once expected. She underwent another procedure that everyone hoped would give her even more time. She made it through. We visited her in the hospital. She went home. As far as we knew, she was recovering.
Then her sister called me.
I thought she was calling with an update.
Instead, she told me my friend had died.
Just like that.
Sometime later, that same sister was expecting her first child. Because of everything her family had experienced, the pregnancy had been watched very carefully. Everyone was looking forward to welcoming this little life into the world.
Then something completely unexpected happened.
The baby didn’t make it.
Another phone call.
Another life gone before it even had the chance to begin.
Sometimes life makes absolutely no sense.
I Don’t Have a Pretty Explanation
I could try to wrap all of this up in some beautiful philosophical bow, but I don’t have one.
I don’t know why one person gets decades and another gets days. I don’t know why someone can finally get his health under control, lose the weight, feel better than he has in years, make plans to travel — and then discover that cancer has already begun changing everything. I don’t know why a perfectly healthy 64-year-old man can have an accident and be gone a week later. I don’t know why a baby everyone is waiting to welcome never gets the chance to go home.
I don’t know why some people get to say goodbye and others don’t. I don’t know why some of the people we love get to grow very old while others leave enormous empty spaces decades too soon.
I don’t know.
And I’m not going to pretend I do.
But I know something else.
I still choose joy.
Today, with swollen eyes and a trash can filling up with tissues, I still choose joy.
Not because I’m happy. I’m not. Not because losing someone doesn’t hurt. It hurts like all get-out. Not because faith makes grief disappear. It doesn’t. And certainly not because choosing joy means putting on a smile and pretending everything is fine.
That’s not joy.
That’s performance.
Joy Doesn’t Require Me to Stop Grieving
I think somewhere along the way we’ve gotten the idea that grief and joy have to take turns. First you grieve. Then you heal. Then eventually you’re allowed to be joyful again.
I don’t think life works that neatly.
I think sometimes grief and joy sit right beside each other.
Yesterday I cried because my friend was gone, and I smiled remembering that gorgeous voice. I cried because I will never talk to him again, and then I laughed at a memory. I cried looking through old messages, and then I found photographs I thought I had lost years ago.
There we were.
And I was so incredibly grateful.
Grief.
Joy.
Grief.
Joy.
Back and forth.
Sometimes in the same minute.
Maybe that’s what I’ve learned after all these losses.
Joy does not wait for grief to leave the room.
It walks in and sits down beside it.
Choosing Joy Is Not Denying What Hurts
When I call myself The Joy Ambassador, I don’t mean that I’m the woman who is happy all the time. Good grief. Spend five minutes with me this week and that illusion will disappear quickly.
Joy, for me, has never been about pretending life is wonderful when it isn’t. It’s something much deeper. It’s knowing that what hurts today is not the whole story. It’s believing there is still goodness somewhere, even when I can’t see very much of it. It’s allowing myself to laugh at a memory while tears are still running down my face.
It’s loving people even though I know loving them means someday I may have to grieve them. It’s getting on airplanes, making friends, falling in love, trying again, noticing beauty, telling stories and creating music.
It’s sitting with someone you care about and talking for hours.
It’s going to a concert.
It’s driving three miles down a dirt road in a new car because someone you care about asked you to come.
It’s paying attention to what someone likes to drink and making sure it’s waiting in the refrigerator.
Those things don’t stop mattering because the person who did them is gone.
If anything, they matter more.
On the Other Side of Grief
I saw something earlier today about joy existing on the other side of grief. There is something about that idea that I believe deeply, although I would say it a little differently.
Because I don’t think we always have to get all the way through grief before we are allowed to find joy.
Sometimes joy is already there.
Hidden inside the grief.
After all, why am I grieving this man? Because knowing him brought something wonderful into my life.
Why did losing my dad nearly destroy me? Because being his daughter was one of the great joys of my life.
Why do we grieve people so fiercely?
Because first, we got to love them.
Grief doesn’t erase that joy.
Grief proves that something mattered.
And maybe that’s why I believe so strongly that there is joy on the other side of grief.
I’ve been there before. I’ve buried my dad and my mother. I’ve buried cousins and friends. I’ve stood at funerals I couldn’t believe I was attending. I’ve answered phone calls I wish had never come. I’ve lived through days when I genuinely didn’t know how life was supposed to continue after what had just happened.
And yet...
I have laughed again. I have traveled again. I have loved again. I have sat beside the Bosphorus and thought my heart might burst from the beauty of being alive. I have met people I couldn’t have imagined meeting. I have written stories and created songs. I have found new dreams at ages when we’re sometimes told we should be settling down instead of dreaming bigger.
I have experienced tremendous joy.
Not because the grief wasn’t real. Not because I forgot the people I lost. And certainly not because they stopped mattering.
I carried them with me.
And eventually, somehow, joy grew around the grief.
So Today, I Choose Joy
I don’t feel joyful today.
That’s an important distinction.
Choosing joy and feeling joyful are not always the same thing.
Today, choosing joy means believing that the way I feel right now isn’t the way I will always feel. It means believing that somewhere beyond this terrible ache, I will laugh without immediately crying afterward.
It means being grateful that the last time I saw my friend, he was healthy and happy.
It means being grateful that I asked him to that concert.
It means being grateful that he said yes.
It means being grateful for every conversation, every laugh and every ordinary little moment I didn’t know would someday become precious.
It means believing that God is still good when life doesn’t make sense to me.
My faith doesn’t require me to understand everything that happens. Thank goodness, because I don’t. But it gives me somewhere to put the questions I cannot answer.
And it gives me hope.
I believe there is more. I believe there is goodness ahead of me in this life. And I believe that ultimately, beyond all of this loss and all of this grief, there is a joy greater than anything I can understand from where I’m standing now.
So yes.
Today I am grieving. Today I am crying. Today I am angry that someone who was making plans for his future suddenly doesn’t have one here. Today I wish I could hear that beautiful voice one more time.
And still...
I choose joy.
When life is beautiful, I choose joy. When life is ordinary, I choose joy. When everything seems to be going my way, I choose joy. When absolutely nothing makes sense, I choose joy. When I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe, I choose joy. And when I’m sitting here surrounded by tissues, grieving someone I wasn’t ready to lose...
Still, I choose joy.
Because I’ve lived long enough to know something grief sometimes tries to make us forget.
This moment is real.
This pain is real.
This loss is real.
Love is real too.
Beauty is real.
Faith is real.
Hope is real.
Laughter is real.
Memory is real.
And joy is real.
Grief may be part of my story, but grief does not get to write the ending.
On the other side of grief, there is joy.
And sometimes, if we look very carefully, we discover that joy has been sitting beside us all along.
Continue the Conversation
Have you ever experienced a moment when grief and joy somehow existed at the same time? What helped you find your way back to joy?
I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Some of my favorite conversations begin there, and I read every one.
Continue the Journey
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These stories wander through joy and grief, travel and home, faith, friendship, unexpected people, and all the strange and beautiful places life takes us.
If my writing has meant something to you, becoming a paid subscriber is one way you can help me continue creating it. And I’m deeply grateful to everyone who chooses to come along for the journey.
Until next time, may you find a little more joy in the ordinary.
— Deronda
The Joy Ambassador | Architect of Joy
I was widowed at 32. Discovered that from intense pain comes the capacity for wild joy. We’re feeling beings. I’m all in for life. Thanks for sharing your journey.