Jewels in the Void

Three months ago, on a chilly January day in Atlanta—the city was just bustling back to life after going dormant under an uncharacteristic three inches of snow—my best friend died. 

Her name was Emily.

I find myself bereft. Like I'm missing a limb. Or perhaps something more essential to my mental functioning, like my soul. But I will not wallow in my pain. In fact, in a cruel and unexpected twist, I've found that losing a very best—would drop everything to do anything for you—friend has gifted me with a profound zest for life. I can no longer meander along throughout my days, blithely ignoring the fact that death comes for us all. 

This thirst for life doesn't lessen the pain. If anything, it amplifies it. Now that I am alive, awake, alert, perked up in rapt attention, committed to soaking up this life in a way I never have, I ache to share it with the one person I cannot.

But there is profound beauty here, at this deep point of human suffering. Unexpected moments, little droplets of sheer divine grace. They spring forth like a waterfall, not dissimilar from tears, in the wake of her death. This is a blog where I will share them. Grief is insidious, but it doesn't have to mean despair. At least not exclusively. 

There are jewels in the void.