On Thanksgiving morning, just before sunrise, my beloved grandmother shed her earthly skin.
I’m at total loss for words, just sitting in heartache and sobbing.

Nothing can fully prepare us for the day. The hour. The moment when death comes for us. It’s an indescribable pain and completely powerless feeling to watch someone dear to us actively die.
My Sito, as I called her in Arabic, was an instrumental woman in my life. I spent a great deal of my childhood going places with her, like to church, the beauty shop, bargain shopping, visiting relatives, and just sitting at the kitchen table helping her cook authentic Lebanese food. She didn’t teach me by telling me how to do things. She did them and let me watch.

My heart breaks for my grandfather, her husband of 68 years. They lived a full life of love and of faith. They danced and laughed together. They were the couple who got up to dance at the bars and in their living room. And they prayed. They prayed together and with their children and were active members of their church. Their marriage was one built on love and in Jesus. It’s no wonder they made it through.

My grandmother left us with the gifts of fond memories, stories, and traditions, all to be passed down and cherished.
Looking at the stories depicted in the old photographs of my grandmother makes me sad to think the world lost such a vibrant and beautiful soul.

But, like Henri Nouwen says, “We still ache in grief when death visits those we love. We suffer in many ways. But our pangs will be more like labor pains like bring new life.” And so, instead of sitting in my suffering, I resolve to get up and dance like nobody’s watching, to carry on traditions, and to keep a book of photographs of her on my coffee table reminding me to live life to the fullest. ~shared by @pursuing_joy