The phone call came in the early hours. I had been expecting it, and had actually been praying for it over the course of several weeks, but when I held the phone up in the darkness and saw “mom” light up the screen, I didn’t want to answer. I wasn’t ready for it, and any words I attempted to muster to the surface just didn’t seem adequate.

My “Grams” was gone.

The line to the ferry wasn’t long. I made my way to lane eight and turned off the pickup, sitting alone in the quiet, watching two seagulls fight over a piece of a French fry in front of Ivar’s Mukilteo Landing. It was comic relief after the six-hour drive, and I couldn’t help but think of my own two boys fighting over the extra pancake earlier that morning.

The outdoor fish bar didn’t have its usual line of people, and those who had ordered were keeping their distance from each other as they waited for their swirl cones, clam strips, or maybe a three-piece basket. My mouth watered, but I knew I didn’t have time.

The island was calling.

The salty air whipped through my hair as I stood on the deck facing Whidbey. There were heavy clouds, and the temperature seemed to drop the closer we got to the shore. I pulled my hood up around my ears and reached into my coat pocket for the rock I knew would be there. The smooth, heart shape had given me comfort for over a month — a piece of the island and a reminder of Grandma, that I had found when I came to say goodbye. I stared straight ahead, watching the water splash against the bow, the blue and green surface stirring all sorts of emotions, but love most of all.

The next few days were the beginnings of cancelations, lockdowns and mad rushes for toilet paper. Physical touch was put on hold, hand washing was climbing to a record high, and the funeral and life celebration my family had planned to honor my beautiful grandmother was changing by the minute. One day at a time was our motto, and we made the most of it, just like Grams would have wanted us to.

My parents, my sister and her family, and I walked the shores of Whidbey Island, soaking up as much sunshine as we could, apart, but together, finding rocks in the shapes of hearts with every step. The changes to plans continued to happen, and as we worked through the disappointment those changes brought, Grandma’s spirit continued swirling around our days. We celebrated birthdays, explored Fort Casey, played Monopoly, had dance parties, read books, skipped rocks, watched sunsets and allowed ourselves to be quiet and unhurried. Confined to the home we were renting, we allowed ourselves to grieve, rest and remember.

The morning of the funeral was glorious, filled with bright blue skies and brilliant light bouncing off the Olympic Mountains and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The water was deep shades of blue mixed with green, and my grandmother’s favorite flowers soaked up the warmth of the sun as we lifted our voices in song and prayer near Ebey’s Landing. Not many of the members of our family were able to attend, and those who did were cautious and careful to keep their distance. There was a short service at the graveside, but all the other plans gave way to COVID-19. No gathering, no stories shared, no celebratory toasts with sparkling cider for the cousins, and no cold glasses of milk to dunk her favorite cookies in. Instead, we gave her what we could, the best we knew how, on a Whidbey Island hillside, amid green fields, wild daffodils, and grazing cattle.

It’s been nearly three weeks since I left Whidbey Island and returned home — with piles of heart rocks and an abundance of new memories mixed in with the old. The morning I left, I stood behind the chain across the front of the ferry, in awe of the stillness and clarity my soul had, as I watched “home” inch its way closer. We don’t know what our days hold right now during this time of staying home to save lives. The systems and routines we’ve all grown accustomed to are completely undone, and ordinary is no longer ordinary at all. We are experiencing every emotion on the planet, and those feelings of doubts and questions often come upon us just like waves crashing onto a shore. Just like the waves I watched crash onto the shore I sat on, while sifting through every shape and size of rock in search of hearts to remember my grandma.

There is no manual for this time in our lives and no one knows exactly what to do, but I am confident that when we look for the good, remember to rest, and find ways to spread joy, we’re going to make it. We’re all just a little bit closer to “home” than we were yesterday, and, thankfully, God has it all figured out for us before we reach the other side. My grandma is proof of that, and you know what? I think we can be, too.