Grief, Grace and Growing

9/28/26

Dear Rob,

Today, I took the day off.

I really needed it, and for once, I didn’t feel guilty about it. I didn’t spend the day trying to catch up or make myself productive. I just let myself breathe. I loved every minute of it.

This morning, Pastor Jon and I met for coffee. He started Salem after your death and wanted to get to know me and the kids. As I walked into the café, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was in trouble. I actually laughed to myself because, honestly, that’s where my mind goes.

But instead of feeling like I was walking into a difficult conversation, I felt like I was walking into a place where I could finally put some things down.

Pastor Jon told me that he lost his father when he was young. He was even younger than Vivian is now. As he talked about his father, I could hear the pain in his voice. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It was simply there, underneath the words.

He told me how proud he was of his mother for keeping their family going and making sure her three children kept moving forward.

And then I told him about you.

I told him about the night you died.

I told him how completely shocked I was. How I couldn’t understand what was happening. How I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. I didn’t want to work. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to get out of bed.

I didn’t even know how to be a person without you.

I told him about the pain, the anger, the loneliness, and the things people said to me when they were dealing with their own grief. I told him about the lack of support from people I thought would be there.

And for the first time, I let myself say all of it without worrying about whether I was making someone uncomfortable.

He didn’t try to fix it.

He didn’t tell me everything happens for a reason.

He didn’t give me some neat Christian answer that was supposed to make losing you easier.

He just listened.

And honestly, that felt like an answer in itself.

Because sometimes I don’t need someone to explain God to me.

I just need someone to sit with me while I don’t understand Him.

Pastor Jon told me he wants to be available to our boys too. He understands something about them that I wish they didn’t have in common with him.

They all lost their fathers.

No child should have to understand that kind of loss.

As he talked about losing his own father, I could see that the experience had stayed with him. It had shaped him. And I realized that maybe God brought him into our lives for a reason I don’t completely understand yet.

Maybe that’s what faith has become for me.

Not having every answer.

Just being willing to believe there is a reason even when I can’t see it.

Pastor Jon asked me how he could pray for me and our family.

That question caught me off guard.

No one had ever really asked me that.

So I told him.

I told him that my biggest prayer is for our children.

I want them to know they are loved.

I want them to know that even though their dad isn’t physically here, they will never have to question whether their mom loves them.

And I want them to know something even bigger than that.

Jesus loves them.

I want them to know that when life doesn’t make sense, they can still pray.

When they’re angry, they can pray.

When they’re scared, they can pray.

When they don’t understand what God is doing, they can still talk to Him.

I don’t want faith to be something they only turn to when everything is going well.

I want it to be where they go when everything falls apart.

Because that’s what I’ve had to learn.

I don’t pray because I have everything figured out.

I pray because I don’t.

I pray in the car.

I pray when I’m driving to work.

I pray when I’m lying in bed and can’t sleep.

I pray when one of the kids needs something and I don’t know what to say.

Sometimes my prayers are beautiful.

Sometimes they’re nothing more than, “God, please help me.”

Sometimes they’re angry.

Sometimes they’re just silence.

And sometimes I sit in church and hear a verse I’ve heard a hundred times before, but that particular Sunday, it feels like God is speaking directly into whatever I’m carrying.

That’s what faith has looked like for me since you died.

Not certainty.

Dependence.

Pastor Jon and I also talked about Anders being a senior in high school.

A senior, Rob.

I still can’t believe it.

You should be sitting with him talking about college applications and what comes next. You should be helping him figure out what he wants his life to look like. You should be teasing him, giving him advice, probably worrying more than you would admit.

Instead, I find myself praying about those things.

I pray that Anders trusts God even when he doesn’t understand the path ahead.

I pray that he doesn’t think he has to have his entire life figured out at eighteen.

I pray that when something doesn’t go according to plan, he doesn’t assume God abandoned him.

Because I’ve had to learn that lesson myself.

God’s plan isn’t always the plan I would have chosen.

I wouldn’t have chosen this.

I wouldn’t have chosen a life where our kids grow up without you.

I wouldn’t have chosen to become a widow at 45.

I wouldn’t have chosen to learn how to make decisions alone.

I wouldn’t have chosen any of this.

And I still don’t understand why God allowed it.

I don’t think faith requires me to pretend that I do.

I think faith is what keeps me saying, I don’t understand, but I still trust You.

Some days I mean it more than others.

Some days I have to say it through tears.

Some days I have to say it because I don’t know what else to say.

But I keep saying it.

Then Pastor Jon asked me something else.

From grace, compassion, love, and patience, which one do I want to work on this year?

I told him love and patience come pretty naturally to me.

But compassion is different.

Since you died, I’ve become much more aware that I have no idea what people are carrying.

The person who is impatient in the grocery store might be exhausted.

The person who seems distant might be grieving.

The person who says something sharp might be hurting.

The person who looks completely fine might be barely holding themselves together.

I know this because I’ve become very good at looking fine while carrying something enormous.

So I’m trying to slow down.

I’m trying not to assume.

I’m trying to give people a little more room.

I’m trying to teach our kids the same thing.

Not because everyone should be excused for how they behave, but because compassion allows us to remember that there is usually more to someone’s story than what we can see.

As I sat across from Pastor Jon, I realized how much I needed that conversation.

The last few weeks have been overwhelming.

Work has been exhausting.

Life has been busy.

And underneath all of it, I still miss you.

Sometimes I think I’ve gotten really good at functioning.

I can work.

I can take care of the kids.

I can make dinner.

I can go to church.

I can laugh.

I can make plans.

I can even have a really good day.

And then something small happens, and suddenly I remember that you’re not coming home.

That’s when I know I need to return to what has carried me this far.

My faith.

Not because it takes away the pain.

It doesn’t.

Not because praying makes me stop missing you.

It doesn’t.

But because faith gives me somewhere to put all of it.

The anger.

The questions.

The loneliness.

The fear.

The gratitude.

The things I wish I could change.

I can put them in God’s hands when I don’t know what else to do with them.

And Rob, I still don’t like what happened.

I don’t like that you were taken from us.

I don’t like that you carried so much pain from your childhood.

I don’t like that you didn’t get more time with our church family.

I don’t like that you didn’t get to see the things God was still doing in our children’s lives.

I wish you had more time.

But I am beginning to understand that I can be angry about what happened and still have faith.

I can miss you terribly and still be grateful.

I can ask God, “Why?” and still believe He is good.

I can forgive people without pretending what happened didn’t hurt.

And that’s where I am now.

As September comes to an end, I want to stop measuring my life only by what I’ve lost.

I want to notice what God has carried me through.

I want to recognize what I’ve accomplished.

I want to be grateful for the people He has placed around our children.

I want to notice the little moments instead of rushing past them.

I want to laugh without feeling guilty.

I want to sit in church and actually be present.

I want to pray more.

I want to listen more.

And I want to forgive.

I’ve carried anger toward people who hurt you and people who hurt me.

I’ve replayed conversations.

I’ve thought about what people should have said.

What they should have done.

How they should have treated you.

How they should have treated me.

But I’m tired.

And I’ve realized that I don’t need to carry those things forever.

I don’t need everyone to understand what they did.

I don’t need them to apologize.

I don’t need to convince anyone that you deserved better.

God knows.

He knows every conversation.

Every wound.

Every unspoken thought.

Every moment you felt alone.

Every moment I felt alone.

He knows what happened, and I trust Him with the parts I cannot fix.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean I suddenly forget.

It means I’m choosing not to let what happened continue taking something from me.

You already lost enough.

I don’t want to lose more of my life to anger.

Pastor Jon recommended a book about grief, and he told me to come back and talk with him after I read it.

I think I’m going to.

Not because I expect a book to explain you dying.

Nothing can.

But because I’m willing to keep learning how to carry this.

And maybe that’s where my faith is today.

Not in having some beautiful, complete understanding of why you died.

Not in pretending everything happens for a reason that I can see.

It’s much simpler than that.

I wake up.

I pray.

I take care of our kids.

I go to work.

I go to church.

I try to be kind.

I try to forgive.

I try again when I fail.

And when the weight gets too heavy, I hand it back to God.

Sometimes I have to do that ten times in one day.

Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe faith isn’t about never falling apart.

Maybe it’s knowing where to go when you do.

And Rob, I know where I’m going now.

Back to God.

Back to prayer.

Back to the people He has placed in our lives.

Back to the truth that I don’t have to understand everything to trust Him.

You once gave me the patience and space to find my church home.

You never pushed me.

You trusted that I would know when I found it.

I didn’t understand then how important that gift would become.

But I do now.

The faith you helped me find is one of the things helping me walk through losing you.

And maybe, in some strange and beautiful way, that’s one more piece of you that remains with me.

So tonight, I’ll pray for our kids.

I’ll pray for Anders and the future ahead of him.

I’ll pray for Vivian and the boys.

I’ll pray for myself.

And I’ll pray for the strength to keep choosing compassion, forgiveness, and faith.

I don’t know what God has planned for the rest of my life.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

But I know I’m not walking into it alone.

And for today, that’s enough.

I trust You, God.

Even when I don’t understand.

Especially when I don’t understand.

And Rob, I think you’d be proud of me for that.