Death I Cannot

On grief, love, and the notes we can still send

Last Friday night, snuggled by the fire, warm and almost asleep, I checked my phone to see the time and saw I’d missed a call and voicemail from a friend in Atlanta, someone who doesn’t call often.

I hit play on his message, gasping as I learned that Raissa was in the ICU. She had been battling cancer since May. I hadn’t even known she was sick.

I went to bed, dreading the moment I would have to tell Joy and Coral the next day.

On Saturday, I told them she was sick and might not make it. They were sad and quiet, uncertain how to respond. As I ran that morning, listening to worship music, I prayed for a miracle, leaving room for and trusting God’s will, whatever the outcome. I looked through old photos of Raissa and our girls and Chris and reminisced on the life we shared for two years, a time that felt so far from my present reality. I cried.

When I woke up Sunday morning, there was a text from Raiane, one of our other former au pairs and Raissa’s close friend.

“She didn’t make it.”

I know this moment too well. Three times over.

On Feb. 9, 2021, it was my dad calling to tell me Chris, my ex-husband of 15 years, Joy and Coral’s father, had passed away.

On Oct. 23, 2024, it was Lindsey, my friend from college, calling to tell me Ashley, my dear friend and college roommate, was gone.

On Oct. 18, 2026, it was Raiane’s text.

I told Coral in the kitchen. “That’s so sad,” she said.

I told Joy in her room. She said the same thing.

Later that day, I heard Joy break the silence in the car. “Did Mom tell you about Raissa?”

“Yes,” Coral said. Nothing more.

Oh grief. There you are again.

Mostly grief lies dormant and rests quietly in remission until it’s jarred awake by a new death, like it was this past weekend. It’s back. “Gosh, I was hoping I didn’t have to feel you again.”

That’s what I felt when I found out about Ashley a couple of years ago too. I wanted to put the grief back to bed and pray it would take an eternal nap.

Grief, a predictable companion with the most unpredictable nature. It comes as an inconvenient, intrusive visitor, in the middle of a band concert or Best Buy. Tears, the dizzying feeling of sadness rising up, heart aching once again.

I remember my daughters’ therapist saying after Chris died, “It’s so hard to counsel children after death because it’s so permanent. Every other challenge I can at least tell them that it will change, even if it never actually does. Death I cannot.”

Death I cannot.

I remember coming in after one of Joy’s sessions. During her play therapy, she had taken the dad doll from the playhouse and buried him in the sandbox across the room, leaving the mom and two girl dolls in the house. So physical and practical, absent of the impossible emotions I was feeling, but deeply true and sad. A 6-year-old’s way to process grief: Daddy, buried in a sandbox across the room, is no more.

It’s been five years since he died, and over time, the pain of losing him has blended into the landscape of our lives. It’s something that defined us and changed us, that we will never forget, but it is woven into our story, our new life now.

The grief still arises here and there, watching the girls practice their instruments or play soccer together. “I wish he were here to see this!”

The surest reality of life is death. We forget that we don’t have forever with the ones we love. And we may have less time than we realize.

As hard as it feels, might we find a way to celebrate grief as the grandest expression of love lost? Might we welcome it into our hearts and allow it to have its way with us?

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really love. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot give. The more you loved someone, the more you grieve.”
— Jamie Anderson

The love I had for Chris became grief five years ago, and it’s still with me. Now my love for Raissa is making that same turn.

Grief is love’s final chapter.

So let me go back to the earlier chapters, to the love. If I could still write each of them a note, here is what it would say.

Chris, you are the father to my children. And how beautiful they are! Full of life! Thank you for bringing them into the world with me. Thank you for loving them. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for the life we made together for the time we were together. I loved your music, and I loved your appreciation for the NBA, good food, and beer. We had a lot of good times together and made some unforgettable memories. I cherish the trip we took to Italy and watching you cry when Vivaldi filled the church we stumbled into by accident. I cherish the moments you and the girls played music together in your studio. I get to witness your living legacy every day in them. What a gift!

Ashley, there is no one on this earth who can dance and sing with me the way you did. You would do every Beast of Burden move with me and sing Lionel, screaming out of open car windows without missing a word! I loved your smile, your laugh, and your disposition. I could be fully me with you, and you with me. I loved the trip we took with Erin to Turks and Caicos months after Chris died. You asked me what I needed, I said a vacation, and that’s exactly what we did! What a gift to have a friend like you. No matter how much time passed, I knew we could be right back where we were on Pritchard Street senior year. Thank you for being a friend.

Raissa, it is rare to have a young au pair in your home who teaches you so much through how she interacts with your children. Aren’t I the one who was supposed to be teaching you about my children? God sends teachers in the most unexpected forms. You were so loving and affectionate with Joy and Coral, and also the perfect disciplinarian for them. They adored you and respected you! And so did Chris and I. But no one loved you quite as much as our dog Ringo. You two had a special bond, since he was a stand-in for the dog you’d left behind in Brazil when you came to live with us. You loved life, live music, and being with your friends. You always had the best Halloween costumes. The most memorable was Maleficent, and it was so adorable to see you beside Coral as Cinderella and Joy as Superwoman. Thank you for loving our girls as if they were your own. They carry a piece of you with them.

On Monday morning at 5 a.m., after a particularly shaky Sunday, I sat once again by the fire, covered in the same blanket that warmed me on Friday. I felt anxious and unsteady, freshly awake, ready to join God in my quiet devotion time. I sipped my matcha from my favorite mug and felt the urge to write a card to my husband. He was leaving for Las Vegas for work for the week, and in this fresh grief, I wanted him to know how much I love him. I got up from my comfortable spot, found a cute card in my stationery stash, and wrote him a note of deep appreciation for the man he is to me and the girls. I folded it into the envelope, sealed it, put his name on the front, and hid it inside his iPad, knowing he’d find it there later.

Then it came. Somewhere over the middle of the country, on his way to Las Vegas, he opened his iPad, read the card, and texted: “Thanks for the card, babe. Just made my day.”

This love note, he got to read.