Grief, Grace and Growing

9/8/26

Dear Rob,

On Labor Day, I did something you probably would have thought was completely ridiculous.

I went to the State Fair.

You hated crowds.

The last time we went to the State Fair, Anders was one year old. And somehow, twenty-something years later, I found myself buying tickets to go back.

Earlier that week, I was scrolling Instagram when I saw an advertisement.

CeCe Winans was performing at the State Fair.

I stopped.

I stared at the screen.

And something inside me said, Go.

So I made an executive decision.

I bought the tickets.

I didn’t worry about the crowds.

I didn’t worry about how we would get there.

I didn’t worry about all the things that normally would have made me talk myself out of it.

I just bought the tickets.

Because I’ve learned something since you died.

Sometimes you just have to say yes to life.

And this wasn’t just about seeing CeCe Winans.

It was about remembering where my faith began.

Years ago, when I was going through Bible Study, I discovered CeCe’s music.

And I sobbed.

I mean, really sobbed.

There was something about her voice, the words, the worship, the way the music seemed to reach into places inside me that I didn’t even know existed.

I listened to her constantly.

I cried.

I prayed.

I questioned.

I grew.

And slowly, somewhere in the middle of that Bible Study, I found Jesus.

Or maybe I should say I finally allowed myself to recognize that He had been there all along.

When I finished Bible Study and went through Baptism and Confirmation, I remember telling you how emotional the entire experience was.

I felt close to God.

Closer than I had ever felt before.

And you listened.

You never forced faith on me.

You never told me what I had to believe.

You simply gave me the space to find Him on my own.

And Rob, I will forever be grateful for that.

On my last day of class, we talked about what a Godly husband looks like.

What a husband is supposed to provide.

What marriage is supposed to look like.

And I remember telling you that night that when I looked at you, I saw so much of it.

The way you provided for our family.

The way you valued marriage.

The way you protected our home.

The way you put your family first.

You believed a God-centered home mattered.

Not just for us.

For our children.

And after I went through Confirmation and became a member of our church, you decided you wanted to go through Bible Study too.

You didn’t have to.

But you wanted to.

Because you wanted to understand what I had experienced.

You wanted to walk through the same process.

You wanted us to go to church together.

As a family.

I will never forget the first day of your class.

You came home emotional.

And later, you finally opened up to me about why.

You talked about sin.

About mistakes.

About the things you had done in your life that you wished you could take back.

You admitted you weren’t perfect.

Neither am I.

None of us are.

We are human.

We hurt people.

We make mistakes.

We say things we wish we could unsay.

We make choices we wish we could remake.

But I remember telling you something that night.

Through everything you had been through…

through the hardship…

through the trauma…

through the things that had broken you…

you still became an incredible human being.

You didn’t believe me.

But I did.

I saw your integrity.

I saw your heart.

I saw the way you tried to do the right thing.

I saw the way you loved your family.

I saw the way you poured yourself into our marriage.

You were not perfect.

Neither was I.

But you tried.

And you loved.

And you showed up.

And you believed.

You had faith in God.

And sometimes, when grief becomes unbearable, I close my eyes and imagine you arriving in Heaven.

I imagine Jesus waiting for you.

I imagine Him wrapping His arms around you.

I imagine you finally understanding everything you couldn’t understand here.

And somehow, that image gives me peace.

Because I don’t believe your story ended on June 25, 2025.

I believe you simply went home before me.

And now, more than a year after losing you, I am learning that my story didn’t end either.

I brought our daughter to see CeCe.

And watching Viv sing those songs at the top of her lungs nearly broke me.

She knew the words.

She sang with everything she had.

She loves Jesus.

She loves people.

She forgives.

She loves deeply.

She learned so much about faith through Jesus Time at school, and she has brought so much of that faith into our home.

I looked at her singing and thought about you.

I thought about the family we built.

And I thought:

Rob, look at her.

Look at the beautiful girl we made.

Look at her faith.

Look at her love.

You would be so proud.

And then CeCe started singing.

And I sobbed.

Just like I did years ago.

But this time, the tears were different.

I cried because I was proud of myself.

I had walked into the State Fair without you.

Without a group of friends surrounding me.

Without allowing anxiety and fear to make the decision for me.

I got myself there.

I brought our daughter.

I brought a friend.

I worked hard for this life.

I provided this experience for us.

And for a few hours, I wasn’t just surviving.

I was living.

But I also cried because there is something indescribable about standing among thousands of people worshipping God.

Thousands of voices.

Thousands of hands lifted.

Thousands of hearts praising Him.

And me…

a widow who never wanted this life…

standing in the middle of it all.

Still believing.

Still praying.

Still trying.

Still here.

Then one song stopped me in my tracks.

The words spoke directly into the deepest part of my grief.

This is not the way the story ends.

And I knew.

My story has not ended.

Not because I have all the answers.

I don’t.

Not because I understand why you were taken from us.

I don’t.

Not because this life feels fair.

It doesn’t.

There are still days when the grief is so heavy I can barely breathe.

There are still moments when I want you.

When I need you.

When I want to call you.

When I want to tell you something stupid and ordinary.

There are still moments when I look around and think,

How am I supposed to do all of this without you?

But I am learning that faith doesn’t mean I won’t hurt.

Faith means I don’t have to carry the hurt alone.

Faith doesn’t mean I understand God’s plan.

It means I trust Him even when I don’t.

Faith doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.

It means I can be afraid and still move forward.

And so, standing there with my hands lifted, surrounded by thousands of people worshipping Jesus, I surrendered.

Not because I had figured everything out.

But because I was exhausted from trying to.

And this is what I prayed:

God, thank You for bringing Rob into my life as my best friend and husband for 20 plus years.

God, thank You for selecting ME to love Rob.

God, thank You for giving us three beautiful children.

God, please guide me through this uncertainty.

God, please continue to provide for me and my children.

God, thank You for the wonderful people You have placed in my life.

God, help me continue to love even when things feel unfair and scary.

God, I will praise You.

I will surrender.

I will live my life with love and purpose.

And then I cried.

I cried for you.

I cried for us.

I cried for the life I lost.

I cried for the life I am still learning how to live.

And somewhere between the tears and the music and thousands of voices praising Jesus…

I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Peace.

Not the kind of peace that means everything is okay.

The kind of peace that says,

You are going to be okay.

I don’t know what my future looks like.

I don’t know what God has planned for me.

I don’t know how many more hard days are ahead.

But I know this:

I am not alone.

God was there when I first found Him.

He was there when I was baptized.

He was there when I sat beside you and talked about faith.

He was there when you died.

He was there when I couldn’t get out of bed.

He was there when I cried until there were no tears left.

He was there when I questioned everything.

And He is here now.

Helping me learn how to live again.

Helping me release what I cannot control.

Helping me understand that surrender isn’t giving up.

It’s trusting.

It’s saying:

I don’t understand this, God.

I don’t like this.

I didn’t choose this.

But I trust You with what comes next.

So, Rob…

this is what I needed.

I needed to get out.

I needed to take our daughter to the State Fair.

I needed to laugh.

I needed to sing.

I needed to stand among thousands of people and worship.

I needed to let the tears come without apologizing for them.

I needed to lift my hands and finally say,

God, You take it.

Take my fear.

Take my anxiety.

Take my uncertainty.

Take my grief.

Take the questions I will never have answers to.

Take the future I am terrified to face.

And give me the strength to live.

Not just survive.

Live.

Because I am beginning to understand something.

You taught me about faith while you were here.

And now, somehow, your death has forced me to live it.

You helped me find my way to Jesus.

And when I lost you, Jesus became the one carrying me.

That doesn’t make losing you hurt any less.

But it makes the darkness less terrifying.

Because I know where you are.

And I know where I am going.

Until that day, I will keep going.

I will keep loving.

I will keep forgiving.

I will keep choosing joy.

I will keep saying yes to life.

I will keep taking the trips.

Going to the concerts.

Watching our children grow.

Trying new things.

Laughing until my stomach hurts.

Crying when I need to.

And praising God through all of it.

Because you may have been a chapter in my story that ended far too soon…

but my story is not over.

And I believe with everything inside of me that God is still writing it.

I love you.

I miss you.

And I will carry you with me in every chapter that comes next.

Until I see you again.

Love,
Jeaney