The morning the pandesal stopped: grieving a grandparent

For as long as Ella could remember, her Lola was up before everyone else. By six the kitchen of their house in Batangas smelled of barako coffee, and a paper bag of warm pandesal sat on the table. Lola would pour Ella a cup and ask the same question every day: "O, ano'ng plano mo ngayong araw?"

Lola got sick in June. By August she was gone. Then came the wake: songs and prayers each night, relatives from Manila and Mindoro, a long table of food, coffee for whoever stayed up. Ella served guests and kept busy. She barely cried.

Then everyone went home. On the first Monday after the burial, Ella woke at six out of habit and walked into the kitchen. It was dark. No coffee. No pandesal. She stood there in her house clothes and finally broke down.

It was dark. No coffee. No pandesal.

During the wake there was always something to do. After the funeral the busyness stopped, and the loss moved into the ordinary moments. The chair Lola always sat in. Her slippers by the door. Her number, still in Ella's phone under "Lola Ising."

Ella went back to teaching after a week. She smiled for her Grade 4 class and cried in the faculty restroom at lunch. She snapped at her mother, then felt guilty. Some days she felt nothing at all, which scared her more.

People meant well. "Nasa mabuting lugar na siya." "At least hindi na siya naghihirap." Ella believed both, and they still didn't touch the empty space in her mornings.

She also felt she should be over it by now. Lola was 84. Other people had lost parents, even children. Who was she to fall apart over a grandmother? So she kept her grief small and quiet, and it stayed heavy.

What helped first was letting the grief be as big as it was. Her pastor visited one evening and said, "You had her every single morning for 25 years. Of course this hurts." Ella cried in front of someone for the first time since the burial.

You had her every single morning for 25 years. Of course this hurts.

She brought the mornings back in a new way. One Saturday she bought pandesal, brewed barako in Lola's old kettle, and sat at the table with her mother. They talked about Lola: her terrible jokes, her scolding, the way she hummed hymns while sweeping the yard. They laughed, then cried, then laughed again. It became their Saturday thing.

She wrote to Lola in a small notebook, the things she would have said over coffee. "Lola, Grade 4 is wild this year." "Lola, I miss you today." Some days she wrote nothing. The notebook was there when she needed it.

She let her body grieve too. She slept when she was tired, walked around the plaza in the late afternoon, and said no to extra school activities for a while.

And she prayed honestly. Some nights she was angry. Some nights she only said, "Lord, I miss her." Psalm 34:18 felt true in a way it never had before.

Months later the grief was still there, and it had changed. It came in waves now. On good days she could think of Lola and smile. On hard days she knew who to call.

If you are missing someone right now, there is no schedule for this. Grief comes in waves, often in the small daily things you shared. Feeling it is part of having loved them.

Try one small thing this week. Tell one person a story about the one you lost. Keep one of their habits alive: a recipe, a song, a morning cup of coffee. Write them a short note.

If the grief makes it hard to sleep, eat, work or get through the day for weeks on end, or you feel hopeless, talk to a doctor or counselor. Asking for support with grief is a normal next step.

And if you want a place to start today, HopeBegins is free. Pick how you feel and get one small thing to try today, calming tools, someone to pray for you, and an e-coach you can message on Messenger. For heavy days, Bible verses for when you feel down gathers a few verses and a short prayer.