I went to a friend’s funeral on Tuesday, and my daughter got engaged on Wednesday. The two events are unrelated, but it’s the fact that they happened a day apart that stands out to me.

It is January that I write this. During the graveside portion of the funeral, we stood shivering in the blowing snow with tears of sadness. The next day, my daughter got engaged during a trip to Thailand on a hot sandy beach with tears of happiness.

I know that is the way things are in the world. At the same time someone dies, somewhere, someone will be born. A time for life and a time for death. An engagement isn’t a birth, but it is a new, exciting phase in their life.

Being at the funeral reminded me of losing my husband. It is still raw at times. I could see my own tear-stained face in that of the widow. Her own pain, as sharp as mine was a few short years ago. The very next day, I was once again reminded of my loss when it hit me that Brian will not be here to walk his baby girl down the aisle. Joy and sadness together in the same moment.

As I sit here thinking of my daughter, I remember her as a child. I remember holding her on my knee when she was sick with a cold. She was a very active child, and usually the only time she would slow down and take a minute to snuggle quietly on my lap was when she wasn’t feeling well (too many things to do and see!). In those moments, I would be sad she was unwell, but ever so grateful for the calm sweet girl in my arms.

Joy and pain. They often co-exist.

I hated those times of emotional conflict after Brian passed. It felt so wrong to, on one hand, feel joy; when it also felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. It felt disrespectful. It felt cruel. The only joy I wanted was the joy of being present with him.

That is not how the world works. Instead of a neatly organized world where emotions are kept secure in their own corner, everything is mixed. It is similar to a child’s plate of food with dividers so that peas don’t touch potatoes, which don’t touch meat. Instead, life and the emotions we experience, are more like a thick stew. The ingredients are together in one pot. It gets stirred and ladled one heaping spoonful at a time into our dish. There is often no separation of events or feelings. It is all together covered with rich gravy, whether we want it to or not.

My heart breaks for the family of the friend who passed away. I can relate to their immense pain. My heart sings for my daughter and soon to be son-in-law. I can relate to their joy and hope. The trick, for me, is to not be afraid to let both those emotions mingle. Like the bowl of stew, I must be okay with meat touching potatoes. With my emotions, I must be ok with sad touching happy.