I’d miscounted. For the past few weeks, I had thought that tomorrow would mark five months since my mom went to Heaven. But then my dad said it had been half a year, and I realized I had somehow miscounted all last week.

Six months.

I was alone in a conference room when I saw my dad’s text. I started to answer when sudden tears hit me like a wave. I quickly moved away from the open door and stood in a corner. Tears kept pushing up in me, trying to break free.

But I knew if I started crying, I wouldn’t stop.

I was meeting a student in five minutes. I had to be a teacher right then . . . not a grieving daughter. Once again, like I had countless times over the past half year, I forced away the grief and went back to work.

Back in October, two days after my mom passed away, several of my family members and I went to the beach at night. It was windy and cold, but what I remember the most was the full moon.

And I stood there in the sand, staring up at the brilliance of the night sky over the ocean, as my family and I learned what it meant to be in a world without Kathy Anderson.

Kathy Anderson. Mother. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Aunt. Friend. Teacher.

She was one life in a world of millions. But she will always be the story that ended before we thought it would. On October 28, 2020, cancer stole her light and left those who needed her most in the darkness.

The night that I stood on the beach and watched the waves crash back and forth against the shore, I felt my grief rising up in me. It came with the force of an ocean, and I knew that I would be lost in its waves.

So I shut the door instead.

A sorrow I didn’t understand stood on the other side, waiting for me. But I wasn’t ready for it. I kept the door closed on my grief. I felt as if the waves were still there, pounding against my heart, but only some water trickled through. Only some of the pain reached me.

And every month since, I’ve watched the moon cycle and remembered the day we lost my mom. But I’ve kept busy and distracted, focusing on teaching and studying, on family and friends, on everything except my grief.

Now, I am graduating in two weeks. Once I walk across that stage, I’m going to go home and put away my aspirations for a while. I’m going to stop running through life.

Instead, I’m going to sit alone with Jesus for a bit, and day by day open the door to my heart a bit more.

I want to write this summer. Because when I write, I remember. When I write, I heal. And I’m ready to heal even if it means drowning in tears for a while.

But my God, my Jesus, knows the depths of my heart. He knows the sorrow I’ve faced and the grief I’ve kept at bay. He’s been waiting for me.

In my soul, I hear Him whisper, “Be still, my child, and let me hold you.”

I know what it feels like to be held, to be loved. When I lean in to hug my dad, I close my eyes. I don’t mean to, but it’s something I’ve always done.

Because when I lean on him, I feel safe.

It’s like that with God. Since I was five years old, I’ve known I could always run to God. No matter what I’ve done or where I am, I can always close my eyes and go to Him.

Every day, He walks with me.

When I turn to Him, I feel safe and loved and known.

He’s not just my Rock; He’s the Shepherd carrying me home; He’s the Father holding me close.

I don’t have my mom to turn to anymore. But I have the God that she introduced me to. I have the hope that she carried with her until her last day on this earth. And one day, because of our Jesus, I will have eternity to spend talking with her.

Six months—or even sixty years—without her will just be a fleeting moment. Then I’ll see her again, and never have to say goodbye.

Until that day, I will let Jesus heal my breaking heart and bind up my wounds with His love.