August 3rd last year was the Friday before a long weekend. From nearly every corner of this continent my friends and family gathered to grieve with me and support me. Texas, Carolina, Saskatchewan, Alberta, Kelowna + Kamloops… Friends left behind families of 5 on a long weekend, or canceled and rearranged flight plans just to be in Abbotsford for 2 hours. I am so grateful for all those who came, or watched the service online, sent flowers (our house was full of them) or cards (literally hundreds). The response was unreal.

Quite a few of my friends commented on how good it was to be together in community to grieve – to see Nathan and I in the physical as we faced the hardest day of our lives.

You would think that day was a blur, but I remember everything. Like my wedding day, I was very mindful to stay present and remember the small details. I remember getting in the truck with Nathan. We were on our way to the church for the funeral. No infant car seat to buckle up, it was just us. Painfully alone, off we went, to her funeral. Nathan prayed before we left the driveway, and we held hands. We drove passed the funeral home where her body was at the time, and cried.

I’ve written about the service before, but at the reception I hugged 300+ people. An unplanned receiving line formed. People’s personality really shows in circumstances like that. Some wanted to talk about the weather, some sobbed with me – and everything in between. I remember every conversation and in some cases even what people were wearing. I wanted to remember so badly.

Being able to stay present is one thing, but the ability to look towards the future is another story. Now that I am one year out from that day, my life as it is now was a total mystery on that day. In deep grief you are only able to withstand life one hour at a time. Sometimes one minute. If I can survive this minute maybe I’ll survive the next one and 58 more and then over again, 24 times…then do it all over again tomorrow. Survival is often about pacing yourself. And that’s where we were, survival mode.

Today I have a new baby, getting chubbier by the day (the baby). Last night we celebrated Cambria’s third birthday. This morning we all sat on the back deck by the fire table, then went to the driving range as a family. Life is so wierd. I could have never pictured this. And if someone were to tell me this would be my life, I wouldn’t believe them. How could life continue without Eden? How could I ever smile again? How could I laugh? I don’t recall the first time I did either of these after Eden’s passing, but they happened at some point. And when they happened she was no less loved and remembered.