Laughter Through Tears

There’s something I’ve never shared with anyone outside my family. I’m not sure how to explain it or why it happens, but after someone close to me dies, within weeks I have a very vivid dream about them in which they approach me, comfort me, and assure me they’re okay and that I will be too. This has happened after every single loss I’ve experienced, with the only exception being my husband’s grandmother, to whom I said my goodbyes within hours of her death. With everyone else, I lacked closure, and the opportunity to express my love and gratitude. I’ve had six of these dreams now and though most of them were years ago, I can remember each one in as much detail as if I’d just woken up. I can only explain my dreams as gracious gifts from God. I pray the memories of them and their existence never cease. In a small way, they’ve lessened my fear of losing someone I love. It’s like I have this private assurance that God will grant me the chance to see them again on this side of heaven, if only in my sleep.

In my relatively short life, I’ve lost four grandparents, two uncles, a brother-in-law, two children of dear friends, several acquaintances, and one very dear friend, Karey. Each of them drew me into unique seasons of grief. As you probably know, grief takes many forms. Its waves are unpredictable, no matter how expected the loss. Like all of us, I coped with each death in the only ways I knew how at the time. The lessons I took away from those seasons of sorrow are enough to fill a book. Remembering each person still triggers an ache in my heart, a longing for their presence, a wondering of what could have been if they’d only been given more time. But not with Karey. When I remember Karey and what I went through after her death, I can’t help but shake my head and laugh.

Karey was my co-worker and dear friend. Together we managed a Hallmark Gold Crown store. I was newly engaged, in my early twenties. Karey had three grandchildren already. We had nothing in common save for our weirdly fierce love for our store, tucked in the corner of the Galleria Mall. We donned our purple t-shirts and khaki pants proudly. We found solace in the aisles of greeting cards and gift wrap. We got as excited as kids at Christmas when the new seasonal merchandise arrived. The front display window of the store was my baby. The wall of Keepsake ornaments was Karey’s. We’d sit and gossip on our lunch breaks in the back room. We’d roll our eyes at the absurd behavior of certain customers. She’d howl with laughter when she caught me making clumsy mistakes over the live security camera feed. I’d never met anyone before Karey that appreciated the importance of perfectly fluffed tissue paper as much I did. Karey’s love for our store showed in her tireless effort to work hard, day in and day out. She spent many hours of her life in that store. She also spent many hours with me.

Not long after working with Karey, we realized we shared more than a love for Hallmark; we also shared a love for Jesus. Her work schedule being what it was, Karey rarely attended church, so she relied on me to share everything I was learning on Sunday mornings. Over time I heard her testimony, piece by piece. Her love story with her husband, Steve, was the stuff of fairytales. Her journey to motherhood was paved with grief and overwhelming challenges. Her two oldest children, Joe and Stephanie, were adopted. Wanting to be an adoptive mother myself, I soaked up every detail. She welcomed my questions and gave me authentic answers. We’d walk to our cars through the dimly lit parking lot after store closing, her arm looped through mine, and we’d trade prayers and dreams for our families, hers still growing and mine yet to begin.

One day I came into work to find Karey doubled over at her desk in the back room. She was moaning in pain. I sprang into action, called her husband, and assured her I had everything under control. Steve arrived moments later and shuffled a very uncomfortable Karey off to the hospital. Later that morning Steve called me with an update. Karey had kidney stones. They were taking care of it and she’d be just fine. I breathed a sigh of relief. My dad had experienced many kidney stones in his life and while I knew they were no picnic, I also knew they weren’t life-threatening. I told Steve to have her call me when she was up to it and I’d take care of the store in the meantime. That evening as I was closing up for the day, the phone rang.

“Anne it’s me, Karey,” she said in her one-of-a-kind rasp.

“Oh my gosh, Karey, are you dead?” I teased.

She cackled. “Anne, I thought I was dying! Do you have any idea what a kidney stone feels like?”

We chatted and laughed about the unexpected turn of events that day. I told her to enjoy the special pain meds while she could and I’d see her back at the store bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. That was the last conversation we ever had. I’m glad it was spent in laughter. That night Karey passed away in her sleep.

I remember arriving at Karey’s house the next morning, still in my purple Hallmark tee, matching purple Crocs on my feet. I never could convince Karey to buy some for herself. I sat on her sofa next to her daughters and grandchildren, stunned. That night as I lay on the couch with my head in my husband’s lap, I let the tears fall. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Zach?” I said.

“Ya?” he replied.

“Karey’s dead.”

I needed to say it out loud, to accept it.

My counselor who I’d been seeing at the time, recommended I write Karey a letter with all the things I wish I could’ve said to her. She suggested I attach the letter to a balloon and release it when I was ready to let go, to move on, to make peace with Karey’s unexpected death. After a few weeks, I did just that. I chose purple paper and a bouquet of purple balloons, Hallmark colors. I carefully attached the envelope with the white ribbons on the balloons. They were just like the ones we sold at the store for birthdays and graduations parties. It depressed me to think of what I was using them for. I drove to the cemetery in the hills, stopping to ask the groundskeeper where she was buried. There was no grave marker yet so he told me to look for the fresh burial plot between two named souls and three graves over from an oak tree. I parked at the base of the hill and struggled to get the enormous bunch of balloons from the backseat of my car. The sky had turned gray and the wind was picking up. Not ideal conditions for a peaceful farewell tribute but I was determined.

I marched up the hill in the direction of her burial plot, a dozen balloons thundering in the wind behind me. I tightened my grip on the ribbons. I nearly lost my footing as the loud POP of a balloon pierced the air. I grimaced. Things we not going as planned. Four more POPs as I frantically searched the cemetery for Karey. I didn’t see her. I thought maybe I’d taken a wrong turn or miscounted the gravesites somehow. “Karey!” I whispered desperately. I knew it wouldn’t help, of course, but I didn’t know what else to do. Then I heard it: Karey’s laughter. It was clear as day as if she was standing right next to me, cackling at the absurdity of my situation. I must have looked ridiculous. I started laughing too. I laughed so hard I had to sit down, the remaining balloon strings still firm in my grasp. As I sank into the damp earth beneath me, I discovered I was at the exact place Karey was laid to rest. Fresh rain was beginning to drip from the sky and the wind was relentless. I didn’t want to lose more balloons so I decided to make it quick. I told Karey I loved her and I’d never forget her. Her voice responded in laughter, “I can’t believe one of the last things you said to me was, ‘Are you dead'?’” I started giggling again, simultaneously wiping tears from my eyes. Then, I released the balloons, the purple envelope still attached.

In my head, I had envisioned a quiet, peaceful sendoff. I imagined watching the balloons slowly drift up toward the clouds, embracing their journey heavenward. I thought how freeing it would be to release the weight of my grief and let it float away, light as air. Instead, the strong gusts of wind tore the balloons from my hand and I watched in horror as they took flight, not upward, but sideways, zooming across the cemetery like a bat out of hell and promptly getting tangled in a telephone wire. Karey’s laughter grew louder. So did mine.

Every time I walk the aisles of a Hallmark store, I can’t help but giggle. I think of what Karey would say if she saw the displays and merchandise; I just know she’d have an opinion because I do too. Every year when I unpack my Hallmark ornaments for the Christmas tree, I grin. I remember the joy she expressed when it was Ornament Premiere weekend at the store. But mostly I smile at the memory of our unlikely friendship. I don’t think she knew I considered her a mentor more than a boss. I don’t think she knew how much her adoption story inspired my own. I haven’t worn purple Crocs or a purple Hallmark shirt since the day she died. The color purple will always mean only one thing to me, and that’s Karey.

Ecclesiastes 3 tells us there’s a time for everything, “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance” (v.4). I couldn’t agree more. Grief packs a punch, and sometimes it’s best to let ourselves be pulled under by its waves. But when we’re ready, we can laugh. I have wonderfully fond memories of every person I’ve lost along the way. When I remember them, I choose the fun. I remember my Uncle Harold’s collection of animatronics, his t-shirt that said “I love Intercourse, Pennsylvania” and the way he’d wear tube socks with his sandals. I remember my Opa trying his best to impersonate Goofy and failing miserably, much to the delight of me and my cousins. I don’t remember my Grandpa but I have a photo of him holding me in his arms when I was just months old. My face is beet red and I’m screaming hysterically, but my Grandpa? He’s laughing. He’s laughing through my tears. I just know I would’ve loved him.

“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” - Truvy, Steel Magnolias