A year since I broke down all alone in her hospice room telling her it was okay she wouldn't get to be there to see me in a wedding dress;

A year since I got the call that stopped my heart;

A year since I lost a piece of my soul I'll never get back;

A year since I realized that even the best of us are mortal.

Death is weird. Growing up in a Christian household, I heard all the time that death can't hold us because of our Savior who gives eternal life in spirit after our bodies wear out on Earth. You'd think knowing this would allow humans who believe in some sort of afterlife to let go of loved ones more easily; that it would somehow make death seem more like an everyday occurrence (which it is, every second of every day someone is dying), an occurrence we should be capable of acknowledging and then moving on from without so much attention.

For that reason funerals have always been a strange concept to me, especially in cultures that believe so strongly in an afterlife. If we know that our loved one is somewhere we consider superior to Earth, why do we dig a hole in the ground, pay thousands of dollars to put a body in a box in that hole, and spend the day crying and eating casseroles from family friends? (Don't get me started on how casseroles are the least ideal choice for comfort food.) It's never made sense to me, and I often have a hard time attending funerals. I'm grateful Nana didn't want one. I think she felt the same way I do: why be sad?

I think studying and teaching history and seeing how humans have handled death across different cultures has always been particularly interesting to me because no place or peoples have ever wanted to believe that our life here is all that there is. Whether it's reincarnation, an afterlife, eternal salvation in a Heavenly kingdom...everyone wants to believe there is something more. We need a reason to hold on to hope after someone is gone that there will be a chance to know them again; to believe that once we take our last breath here there is something on the other side of that breath.

For a woman who was so full of life to suddenly be void of a heartbeat was an idea I couldn't wrap my mind around, which is probably why no matter how bad the news from her doctors was, I always told myself that she would somehow be the exception; somehow she was going to be that small percentage of people who miraculously recovered unscathed.

Part of me believing this was Nana always thinking she could kick cancer's ass (and threatening to kick several doctors' and nurses' asses who tried to tell her otherwise during her journey). I let myself be distracted by work instead of dedicating more time to visiting her because I wanted to believe that it was impossible for a woman like her -- so bold, so voracious, so fearless, so alive -- to be anything but that.

I couldn't even convince myself to go to the hospice house when they called family in the last few days of her life until the night before her passing. I think she knew... I think she knew when I was there sobbing on her lap talking about my plans for the next day with Tyler. I think she was waiting on me to come. I think she knew she couldn't pass without me coming; not for her, but for me. I think she knew I'd never get over it if I didn't see her one more time.

It's hard to explain the bond I shared with Nana. She made sure I knew it was okay to be different, that being "normal" was for boring people, and that life was always better if you didn't care what other people thought of you. Wear the light-up flip-flops, be the only kid at the 7th grade Halloween party dressed in a blow-up cow suit instead of a "hot" costume, run through the Family Dollar with a funny hat on just because you want to. She was so refreshingly genuine, honest, and herself. 

She never ran out of laughs or love.

She treated strangers like family.

She believed in everyone.

She had so much hope.

I've spent most of this year battling with all the feelings that Nana's death left me with. I wanted (and still want) to be sad, but as someone who soaked every drop of life's nectar given to her, I knew it would be an insult to her spirit to be sad for too long.

I still grapple with anger - angry at God (or the universe, or whatever divine being is out there) for taking her, angry at others for having their grandparents and neglecting to spend time with them, angry at myself for not spending enough time with her, angrier at myself still for being unable to visit Papa because it makes me think of her and it's still too much for me to be in her house without her in it.

I get moments of pure joy just thinking about her - moments where memories from Facebook show her footprints all over my page. Comments, pictures, and posts I used to be annoyed by but would trade anything for now.

But the emotion I feel most often is relief. I'm relieved that she isn't suffering, that my mom and her siblings can breathe after spending months helping her fight, that Nana isn't going in for surgery after surgery losing more and more of herself in an attempt to stay here with us; relief that there has to be something more where she is now. I feel these moments of relief everywhere.

We spent my birthday this year spreading Nana's ashes at the cultural site of the Chicora-Waccamaw tribe in South Carolina. There is a fire pit there with the ashes of ancestors of our tribe, and any member can opt to have all or parts of their remains scattered there ceremoniously as well. This was part of Nana's wishes. We all took a handful of sage, walked around the ancestral fire, spoke our piece, and dropped a portion of what used to be Nana into the flames.

I didn't say anything when it was my turn. I didn't need to, because the Chief of the tribe already said it for me when he opened the ceremony...Nana wasn't in those ashes. She wasn't in that urn at all. She wasn't  and isn't anywhere I can touch; but I can feel her everywhere -- in the trees when a leaf falls down right as I walk underneath them, in the wind when it blows just the right way and almost kisses my cheek, in the silence right before you fall asleep when I can almost hear her say, "you're my favorite" (she said this to everyone, by the way, because people were her favorite). Nana's death has given me even more reasons to believe in the something more.

Before Nana got sick, I was losing my faith. I'd drifted from my childhood church, I wasn't sure what I wanted to believe, and I found constant reasons to doubt basic truths about my religion I was taught growing up. Nana made me reexamine my beliefs without me even knowing it.

I know there has to be a Creator - we are too small, the world too complicated, and life too inexplicable for there not to be something bigger than ourselves pulling the strings, keeping the clock ticking, or whatever metaphor you prefer.

I don't know that I have to assign the Creator a name. God, Allah, Yahweh -- our major monotheistic religions in the world today and ancient stories of creation are too similar for there to be any "right" or "wrong" way to the more.

Every day we see the ability words have to tear us apart -- words written by humans for humans with inspiration from something non-human (the Holy Spirit, if you will). Human error is inevitable, and to say that only one name, one way or worship, or one religious text is the only seems ignorant, because the central message of those names, practices, and texts is one thing: love.

I'm sure some of you (if any one reads this at all) think I'm insane.

We've all been taught that the way we do or don't believe is the "right" way, that there is only one way to the more; but how can that be true?

If there is an almighty, all-knowing, entirely omniscient power out there, we can't possibly be all knowing -- we aren't supposed to be, because then that omniscient power would be powerless. So really, there is no way of knowing whose way is the right way.

For centuries humans have fought and killed one another over their differences instead of taking the time to look at their similarities. I too often see Christians embracing the Old Testament's mistakes of hate and judgement to inspire action instead of  New Testament lessons in love and acceptance. Do we think this is what any unconditionally loving Creator would want? For his creations to destroy one another? I don't think so. I don't think Nana thought so either. So now I try to choose to love like Nana and hope that this leads me to the more I'm after...A more where all the unknowns are explained, where we understand all of the "others" in (and outside) of our world, where there is no incurable cancer; the more where I think Nana has to be.

I hope that I'm right. I hope desperately that when I take my last breath I've lived a life inspired by love and not hate, that despite my numerous flaws I've left something better than I found it. That's what Nana did, she left everyone and everything better than she found it.

Here's to you, Nana - I hope the more has margaritas, because I can't wait to sip one with you.