Our theme for the month of June is “older and wiser.” Writers were asked to write a response to one of their previous pieces. Today, Olivia responds to her January 2024 post, “Word of the Year.”

This is the first piece I’ve written that my grandmother will not read.

She was subscribed to the email list and always made sure to comment on my “latest post.” She was extremely tech savvy, snapchatting me messages every day to see how the weather was, what did I eat for dinner, did I see the Cardinals were winning? And why wasn’t I sending her any pictures?

She was an avid reader, flying through more books than she could even remember reading. Goggy always had at least two books checked out from the library, often consuming several books at one time. She read Emily Henry’s Beach Read and loved it as much as I did—then paid me the highest compliment: Emily’s writing reminded her of mine.

She offered me some sort of cookie every single time I visited her home.

She was the absolute dearest person to me, and now she’s gone.

My words of the year are healing and preparation, and I almost wish I hadn’t chosen them. I don’t want to heal from this loss, I just want Goggy back. I don’t want to prepare for a future that doesn’t include her, I want another one of her trademark hugs.

I’ve previously had a rudimentary idea of healing. Like you get a cut or break a bone, and it heals back so you can’t even tell there was an injury. I wanted things to revert back to the way they were, rather than to truly heal.

But scar tissue proves me wrong—it’s stronger than the original skin, but it looks different. You can tell it has been through trauma and come through the other side. Scar tissue is woven in with the rest and while the wound hurts less, it’s still an ever-present reminder of that pain.

It’s only been one week without her here, and I can already see the way my memories of her, now accompanied with twinges of pain, are weaving themselves into my daily life. The way everything lemon makes me think of her, and how I’ll smile every time I have ice cream because she never turned it down (not even before dinner). Every time I enjoy a new book or a really good hug, every time I see a Cardinal. Every time I visit the ocean or feel the sun on my face or eat a chocolate chip cookie.

When I wrote that post in January, I didn’t realize how much I was going to have to return to the basics of healing this year. I did make the move to a quieter, better apartment. It has given me a peaceful space to breathe, cook, sleep, and rest as the rest of my world is turned upside down. The Lord was preparing me then for what I so desperately need now: peace.

There’s no blueprint for handling loss, no timeline for when I’ll stop feeling a physical gut punch every time I remember something else we’ll never get to do again. But I do know that this loss will be a part of every day moving forward. Some days her memory will bring me more joy than sorrow, but she will always be with me. Healing will not be an absence of this pain but rather holding the sadness and still finding a way to move forward.

I’m thankful my scar from this loss will leave me forever changed because I want to remember. We will be mourning for quite some time, but I’m confident one day the Lord will turn our mourning into rejoicing. And in the meantime, maybe I’ll write a novel like Emily Henry—something Goggy would have loved to read.

Olivia Harre

Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.