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...When a loved one dies, it’s easy to see what is lost. But the loss is so much bigger than just the person.
When my husband Jon passed away, I had no idea the magnitude of loss I was facing. Of course, I grieved losing him—but as the days and months went on, I realized there were so many other pieces of my life that disappeared with him.
One of the hardest parts was the loss of identity. Overnight, I went from being a wife to being a widow. I had also been Jon’s caregiver for 3 ½ years, a role I never expected to take on but one that became my full-time job. Suddenly, that role was gone, and I was left with empty hands and an aching heart, unsure of what to do with myself. I also became a single mom in an instant, carrying the weight of parenting alone while grieving at the same time. On top of that I had to adjust to losing my identity as a pastor’s wife. For years, that had shaped the way people saw me and my role in the church, and it took a long time to unravel and learn how to simply be a regular church member.
Read more...Week 5: Grateful for Love—Then and Now
This part of my story holds both deep sorrow and unexpected joy.
I will always be grateful for the godly man I was privileged to call my husband. He was strong, faithful, and deeply committed to our family. He prayed over us, led us with wisdom, and lived his life in a way that quietly impacted so many. His love shaped me. His example pointed others to Christ. I miss him every day.
Even now, years later, I still feel his absence. I still tear up when I hear certain songs or see our children do something he would have been proud of. And yet, woven into that grief is gratitude. Deep, steady, sacred gratitude—for the years we had, the memories we made, and the way God used him to leave a lasting legacy.
And then… God surprised me.
Read more...Week 4: Grateful in the Hard, Because God Doesn’t Waste Pain
Gratitude isn’t always a natural response to hardship. It’s easier to be thankful when life is peaceful, predictable, and full of blessings we can clearly see. But in the middle of suffering—when the future feels foggy and the weight of grief is heavy—it’s a lot harder to find reasons to be grateful.
And yet, looking back, some of my deepest growth has come from those hardest seasons.
Grief, illness, and the long road of single parenting after loss have shaped me in ways I never expected. They’ve brought me to the end of myself again and again—and led me straight into God’s presence. I’ve seen His comfort in new ways, learned to depend on Him more fully, and discovered a deeper compassion for others who are hurting.
Read more...Week 3: Grateful for the People God Placed Around Me
I don’t know how I would have made it through those early days of grief without the people God placed around me.
Some were close friends who knew exactly what to say—and what not to say. Some were quiet helpers who brought meals or folded laundry without expecting anything in return. Others prayed from a distance or sent a simple text that said, “I’m thinking of you today.” Each one was a lifeline.
Grief has a way of making you feel isolated, even when you're surrounded by people. But God, in His kindness, kept sending people who reminded me I wasn’t alone. Sometimes it was a listening ear. Sometimes it was someone just sitting with me in silence. Sometimes it was someone taking my kids, so I could have some time to myself. These simple, beautiful acts were deeply healing.
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