Part 2: When Grief Shows Up in Unexpected Ways
When Jon died, I truly believed I was handling things well. I stayed busy—teaching piano, homeschooling the kids, staying involved at church. I cried occasionally, but I didn’t allow myself to really feel. I told myself I was being strong, doing what needed to be done, moving forward the way I thought I was supposed to.
At the time, it felt like survival.
What I didn’t realize was that grief doesn’t stay buried forever. When it isn’t given space in our hearts, it often finds expression through our bodies.
For me, it began as anxiety. Fear crept into places it had never been before. A simple sneeze from one of my children could send my heart racing. A smoke detector chirping in the middle of the night left me wide awake and panicked. Late-night phone calls filled me with dread, my mind immediately jumping to the worst possible outcome.
Depression followed close behind. I withdrew—not because I wanted to, but because I was exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. My body felt like it was constantly on high alert, stuck in fight-or-flight mode, and I didn’t know how to turn it off.
Part 1: When You Feel Like You Don’t Have Time to Grieve
“I don’t have time to grieve.”
Those were the words that kept running through my mind after Jon passed. Overnight, my life changed in ways I never could have imagined. I became a widow, a single mom, and the sole person responsible for holding our world together—all at once. There were children to homeschool, piano lessons to teach, bills to pay, and decisions to make. Life didn’t slow down just because my heart had shattered.
Adding grief into that already overwhelming mix felt impossible.
Grief is uncomfortable.
Grief is heavy.
Grief takes time—whether we make space for it or not.
Grief is heavy.
Grief takes time—whether we make space for it or not.
So I did what I thought I had to do. I stayed busy. I kept moving. I told myself I would deal with the pain later—when things settled down, when the kids were older, when life felt more manageable. Feeling the full weight of his absence felt like it would crush me, and I wasn’t sure I would survive that.
And If Not… He Is Still Good
A friend shared this recently: “And if not, He is still good” (Daniel 3:18).
I can’t tell you how much it resonated. Sometimes God answers our prayers differently than we hope—or not in the way we want at all. And yet, even when His answer doesn’t match our expectations, He is still good.
I know this truth deeply, not just in theory, but in life. Sixteen years ago, I became a widow while raising two young children. In one moment, my life as I knew it disappeared. Plans, dreams, identity, routines—all gone. I found myself asking the same questions I imagine many of you have: Why? Why now? Why like this?
And yet, even in that heart-wrenching season, I began to see glimpses of God’s goodness. I didn’t see them right away, and it took me a long time to choose to see His goodness. He gave me strength I didn’t know I had, kindness from friends and family I hadn’t expected, and a sense of peace that could only come from Him. I began learning that His goodness isn’t dependent on circumstances.
God is still good, even when a diagnosis is frightening.
God is still good, even when you lose a job you loved.
God is still good, even when a dream you’ve worked toward is lost.
God is still good, even when a loved one dies.
God is still good, even when you lose a job you loved.
God is still good, even when a dream you’ve worked toward is lost.
God is still good, even when a loved one dies.
When Gratitude Feels Impossible
Grief is hard.
It’s heavy.
It’s an impossible burden to carry.
It’s heavy.
It’s an impossible burden to carry.
It feels like you’re always going to feel this way. You’re angry, sad, overwhelmed, and completely spent. There are endless questions — Why did this happen? Why do I have to feel this way? When will it stop? You can’t imagine ever moving through the grief to the other side. And part of you doesn’t even want to, because that might mean you’re forgetting.
Grief can feel intense, exhausting, and completely unfair.
I get it. I experienced all of this when my husband passed. Some days, the weight of it all made it nearly impossible to get out of bed. Other days brought a brief sense of relief — only to be followed by guilt because maybe I wasn't missing him enough.
Read more...
Not all losses come at once. Some unfold slowly, and others only become clear much later. When Jon became sick and eventually passed away, I discovered layer after layer of loss I wasn’t prepared for.
Some of those losses happened gradually. As Jon’s cancer progressed, he wasn’t able to handle the responsibilities he once carried. Slowly, the things he took care of became mine to manage. Dinner around the table as a family grew less frequent as his appetite faded. The dreams we once talked about for our future—retirement, travel, growing old together—slipped away piece by piece. And as his illness worsened, my sense of direction vanished. My “map” for life had always included Jon, and when his journey ended, mine felt blank.
Other losses became painfully clear after he was gone. Jon was my safe place. I could share my fears, my struggles, and even my shortcomings without judgment. He knew me completely and loved me anyway. Without him, I felt exposed and unanchored. I also lost my encourager—the one who reminded me of what I was doing well, who cheered me on in motherhood, in faith, and in life. His words carried me through so many seasons, and their absence left a deep silence.
Read more...