Grace was laughing from heaven, for sure.

In fact, she likely would have been insulted if we had remained trapped by the stunned sorrow that consumed us after we learned of her death Tuesday.

Instead, after quivering through tearful hugs and shock, we – a tight-knit group of her friends and fellow writers – met the news of Grace Navalta’s passing with a spirited, spur-of-the-moment act of reckless abandon.

It was the finest impulse of camaraderie, love and appreciation we could think of to honor the giving, loving, animated life Grace lived before leukemia claimed her at the young age of 54.

It was also the first time I’ve jumped into a backyard pool fully dressed while simultaneously screaming, laughing and crying with four other women.

But what better way could we honor Grace — who lived life to the fullest — than to make a splash in her honor and toast her memory with a round of spontaneous gin and tonics topped with just-picked Pleasanton lemons?

It was either poetry or divine intervention that allowed five of us to assemble spontaneously before we received news of Grace’s passing. I, Kathy Cordova, Amy Moellering and Alma Spring gathered at Keely Parrack’s house to talk about our “Amazing Grace” while awaiting updates on her suddenly worsening health.

Grace fought her cancer the same way she lived – with reckless abandon, blatant love, endless gratitude, constant giving and a permanent smile.

Channeling her fiery love of life and fearless devotion to others, Grace applied tenacity, vivacity and even humor in her seven-month fight against leukemia.

Knowing her spirited ways, I’m willing to bet Grace would have suggested the five of us jump in the pool wearing only our skin.

“Who needs clothes?” I asked the group on impulse prior to the jump. I didn’t have a chance to edit the words before they left my mouth.

“Umm… You may want to warn Adam!” said Keely. Her husband was working at the home office Tuesday.

“No. I think it’s YOU who may want to warn Adam!” I replied. No one took the bait as Adam stepped outside to watch the fully-clothed jump.

“It was a like a tsunami when you all jumped in!” he exclaimed after we yelled “Grace!” and hurled ourselves toward the water, creating a chlorinated wave that watered the lemon tree 15 feet from the opposite end of the pool.

“A tsunami?” said Kathy, laughing. “I take offense to that, Adam!”

“I do, too! We’re not fat!” I said, as I climbed out of the pool with a swagger in my step and plopped my sopping backside into a canvas seat that instantly tore widthwise and set me falling – tailbone first – onto the concrete.

Perhaps Adam had a point.

“You know Grace is cracking up right now!” Amy said, starting another round of laughter that rose up after everyone made sure I hadn’t broken any bones.

While our tears are still more plentiful than our laughs, laughter possesses powerful regenerating effects.

In losing Grace, her husband, Ernie, and children, Garret and Ari, have lost the love of their lives. But the world has gained an angel.

In losing Grace, I’ve gained new appreciation for living how she lived.

I’ve been reminded to love more freely, to forgive much sooner, to wallow a little less, to smile more broadly, to give more often, to thank even oftener. And there’s no need to feel shame in laughing even louder than I already do.

I’m realizing that to cry openly is a show of strength, not weakness, much in the way that the person who can laugh at herself doesn’t waste energy taking life too seriously.

And I’ve discovered that an impulsive, fully clothed, tsunami-style jump with friends into a backyard pool should be a required course of treatment for sadness.

To do so is to live life with an exclamation point. Just as Grace did.