But life has a funny way of drawing us back to itself. Its beauty and allure can be difficult to resist. Like the amputee, I hadn’t died. I hadn’t even lost a vital organ, although I didn’t want to admit it. Life was happening all around me, and it was my choice to join in or stay in my sickbed.

I knew that losing my mom had strengthened me for this moment. I knew from my own experience that it is possible to re-learn life. I knew that I could learn to live without him. And so once again, I began the heart-wrenching journey of rebuilding my life.

One of the more difficult things I faced after each death was hearing people tell me that I needed to “move on,” or “get over it.” Those words stung like a slap in the face. People who haven’t faced this strange amputation don’t understand - there is no moving on, no getting over it. There is only readjusting; there is only learning to walk again without that leg we’ve been so used to. The new life isn’t better or worse than the old; it’s just different. I have grown used to life without my mom, used to life without Philip. It’s my new normal. This acceptance doesn’t mean I love them any less; it doesn’t mean I don’t miss them and still feel the ache of their absence. What it means is that I press on toward the life that still awaits me, the future that has been lovingly crafted for me, and the purpose for which I was created.

Each loss I’ve suffered has helped me see more clearly the priceless value of living life to the fullest. Life is incredibly beautiful, full of mystery and promise, hope and purpose, and we can’t let death blind us to that fact. Of course, I still have my moments...those unexpected jabs to the heart that pierce through all the layers of healing and reopen old wounds, those times of crying uncontrollably for missing what I’ve lost, and still the times I try to cover it all up and put on a brave front.  Loss and grief are a part of who I am, and who I am becoming. And today, several years into my acquaintance with grief, I am thankful even for the pain. C.S. Lewis also said, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken.” I want to be the kind of woman who lives deeply, from the heart. If knowing true joy means knowing suffering, I want them both. I want to be present in every circumstance, appreciative of each moment’s joys and sorrows, recognizing the deep truths of life and love reflected in each.

This Christmas as I make my piecrusts, I know there will still be “phantom pains”. Sharp and sudden, they will take me back to the life I knew before. But I no longer fear the pains. I know who I used to be - a girl who had a mom, a woman engaged to marry the man I loved - and I know who I am - a woman being restored every day. Restored is not the original, but it is full of grace and hope and room to grow. And restored can be extraordinary.

Rita Calvert lives in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, where she teaches a crazy and loveable crew of high school English students.