The last 48 hours have been a real struggle. A dark storm, twisting and turning and engulfing us in unbearable grief and turmoil. Because when you get phone calls, voicemails and text messages littered with words like grandma, hospital and emergency, that’s really the only way to describe it. A storm. A dark, twisty storm. The thing about storms is they always seem to come with their own treasure chest of memories, too. All my memories with her have been swirling and twirling and rushing around in my head. Every Christmas. Every dance recital. Every birthday card. Every hug from a woman who embodies warmth and faith and love and everything I want to be.

You did your best to protect me from the news so that I could love on our clients who deserve nothing but the best version of us. And you sat me down at the end of the night, and delivered it softly. You wrapped me in your arms and let me ugly cry into one of your nicest shirts. You dropped everything to support me. You held my hand in the waiting room. And when it was our turn to get that precious time with her alone in her hospital room, you ignored all the masks and tubes and machines and told her how beautiful she looked. You opened her bible and read her favorite chapter, right out of John, and soothed her when breathing got hard. You coached her through each breath, and loved her like your own.

You’ve spent the last 48 hours thinking of everybody else first. Offering rides and sacrificing sleep. Never letting me drive anywhere, taking me to appointments and letting me sit in the backseat of our car, so I could hug my mom and be a support to her. So that we could walk with her to the ICU and be there to talk. And sometimes not to talk. Letting me sink into your arms on our couch at the end of the night and just sob into your shoulder.

So today, on a day when visitors weren’t allowed, you talked me into keeping the hair appointment I scheduled weeks ago, then insisted on taking me to the salon yourself so that I wouldn’t have to worry about driving. You dropped me off, and it was about an hour into that appointment that a new text popped onto my screen. No words. Just this photo. This selfie. Of you and my grandpa. The man who has had to bear this unbearable sadness and burden and live in a constant state of fear. A man who has been married for 55 years to that sweet woman laying in that hospital bed. You made time for him without even telling me. To lift his spirits. To get him out of there and away from the storm for a little while. You’re determined to be the light in this dark place. And this sweet, smiling photo of the two of you together was a bigger gift than you ever could have imagined. You never intended for this photo to live on the internet, but it’s so special to me that it needed to be shared. So I could remember the light. And the day I’ve never loved you more.