You can't schedule grief

My friend, Rosalie captured this shot last month while she and her husband were in Oregon visiting my mom. I think it's beautiful. I love the color and placement of the roses, how perfectly green the grass is, and I love how I know it was such a special moment for her as she never before had any closure. It shocked me to see it amongst the other photos in her FB album, but I was instantly taken back to the last time I visited this spot. One year ago, September 22nd, 2009, five years had passed and my family planned on remembering together at the cemetery. I wanted to go. I wanted it to be special, emotional (whatever that means), honest and glorifying. I was, however in a limiting situation. I was recovering from giving birth just one week before, I had a rambunctious 2.5 year old, an unpredictable newborn, and Shawn was working. Could I really manage by myself, and was it even worth it to go if all I was doing was 'managing'? Yes. I decided it was. Miscommunication left me driving to the cemetery w/ the boys expecting to meet my mom there, and had my mom waiting at her house for me to show up so we could drive together. Oh dear. This particular cemetery is not like the quaint, eerie ones that photographers like so much, it's huge. I knew the general area I was looking for, but it had been a couple years since I'd gone, so I would have to look around. With my tiny one strapped to my chest and my 2 year old... wait... where was Levi? Oh, there he is, climbing on that giant tombstone. Awesome. What exactly is the proper protocol for toddlers in cemetery's? Wow, so it ended up taking me 20 minutes to find my dad's headstone, Levi lost a shoe somewhere and started playing with some toys that had been left on a small child's grave. This is not good. By the time I rounded up Levi, Nolan was starting to stir, and I knew I would need to hurry home to feed him. It was a discouraging trip. My expectations were unreasonably high. I mean really, did I think my two year old would stand there still and silent, somehow intellectually grasping the sacred significance of what lay in front of him? I'm finding that grief is this illusive concept that I just can't seem to define. It isn't something I can plan for, force or manipulate. It comes in waves on a somewhat predictable timetable, but not always. I'm forever changed, deeply thankful for the growth and always aware of my own mortality.