09/24/2025
With the changing of the seasons, I’m reminded of something I’ve learned: grief is timeless. It cares not for our calendars and watches; it does not mark the methodical passing of hours, or days… or years. Rather, it settles into heart, memory, and bone, becoming an undercurrent for every moment – at times, recessed quietly in the background; at others, issuing profound reminders of its presence. With reluctant practice, we learn to navigate the unpredictable sliding scale of this new version of love, now dressed as loss – and to recognize when we are ready to do difficult things… and more importantly, when we are not. January, 2026 will mark the 5 year anniversary of my son’s death, and it has taken me nearly that long to work through one very difficult task… let me share with you how it went.
I remember the day I went to pick up all Josh’s personal belongings, years ago. I knew it would be incredibly difficult – and so I put it off, finding excuse after excuse to delay the task… until I couldn’t any longer. On my way, I prayed to God that He would hold me up under the weight of it all; that He would grant me the emotional strength required to shield the others involved from the burden of seeing my grief. Although I wasn’t sure how it would be possible, He delivered… I felt His presence alongside me as I gathered the closed bags and boxes and placed them in the back of my car, somehow managing to maintain my composure on the surface. That is, until I got back into the driver’s seat and glanced in the rearview mirror to back out of the driveway of the house my son had called home – and my view was filled with all that loss, waiting in the back of my car. As I navigated each turn, recognizing that I was now alone and safe to grant the experience more space, I felt its full weight… the ache settling into my chest; the lump swelling in my throat; the burning of new tears in my eyes – all of which promptly made their way into the light of the day. As much as I tried NOT to look in that mirror, knowing my gaze would be filled only with painful reminders of the past, my eyes seemed insistent on stealing quick glances – each one matched by an escalation of my grief. And so, I did what my heart felt compelled to do… I made my way straight to the nearest greenhouse and impulsively purchased pot after pot; flat after flat of blooms to layer on top of the boxes that filled my cargo space. It’s difficult to explain – but it was as much about a beautiful tribute to my son and honoring the light and joy he brought to my life as it was about blocking my view of what used to be… what should still be. I made the rest of the trip home, with each occasional glance toward the rear being met with beautiful reverence and the sting of remembrance, made gentler by each green leaf and pretty petal.
Upon my arrival home, my loving husband was there to meet me in the driveway. He clearly understood the gravity and difficulty of what I had just done and was ready to shoulder and share both with me as we finished the job. He lifted the cargo gate, smiled in support and fondness at first sight of my flower-filled car, and paused to embrace my reaction… and it was significant. Once again in the safety of my own home, and in the company of the heart that loves and knows me best, I broke down completely under the significance of the moment. He met my deep grief with his deep love, holding me as I said in a shaky, sobbing voice “I just can’t believe this is all I have left of him…” And then my incredible husband did something I’ll never forget. He stepped back, looked squarely at me with gentle understanding and firm belief, placed his hand softly over my heart and said “That’s not true, honey… it’s all in here.” And he was right. The contents of those bags and boxes were merely ‘things’; physical reminders of a profound loss – and while it was astoundingly difficult to look at them, they did not – could not hold the love we shared. That love lives elsewhere, in a place untouchable by time or space. A place that exists and persists, steady and sure, despite the ever-changing circumstances and realities of this life – safely shielding, protecting, and sustaining that love through all things.
I had finished the first step of this difficult task: picking up and transporting my son’s belongings. But once again, I stalled completely - because I then realized that the first step was the easier part… I now had to come to terms with going through and deciding what to do with each of them. My heart simply couldn’t stand the thought; I knew I wasn’t ready for that… and so I reverted, once again; adopting procrastination. Those bags and boxes were placed in a secure location – one that I chose with purpose, as it did not require me to walk by and acknowledge their presence every day. I applied the ‘out of sight, out of mind (kind of)’ approach to the next phase of the task. Occasionally, I would venture out to test my resolve and assess whether or not I was ready – but the answers came swiftly, as tears followed the opening of a box and seeing the wallet he carried every day; his hunting gear; the Fish Tales tee purchased during one of our many shared Ocean City vacations; his high school baseball sweatshirt; the hat he was wearing the last time I saw him. And so, I would close the box, vowing to try again another day.
This slow, predictable dance continued for years. When I thought I felt brave and capable, I would venture out and lift a box top, and pause to honor my reaction… if my grief rose up quickly (as it often did), the box top was immediately closed to protect my heart from seeing what was inside; if I was filled with yearning, I would lift out the thing triggering my memory and hold it close for a moment, allowing it to softly transport me back to a shared place and time before returning it to its place beneath the lid. I knew I would recognize when I was ready to move forward; it would not be based on the passing of time – but rather, the presence of a feeling… and I wasn’t ready yet. And so, I waited, granting myself grace as I did, and learning to free myself from any guilt or pressure over getting it done in what others may view as a ‘reasonable’ amount of time. Grief is anything but reasonable. Coming to terms with the decisions I would have to make was more painful than I ever dared imagine; as a mother, the mere thought of parting with Josh’s things felt fundamentally wrong – but putting emotional attachment aside, what would I realistically do with them? There were, of course, things I would choose to keep – some I, or members of my family, would proudly use in his memory; some that hold sentimental significance… but what about all the other things? Yes, much of his clothing could be donated to those in need – but allow me a moment of brutal, awkward honesty: what else could one do with underwear, but throw them away? It seems like such a trivial and obvious decision to make on the surface… but the mere thought of throwing ANYTHING away that belonged to a child lost does not sit well with a mother’s soul… and so, everything sat and waited for me to move beyond irrational attachment, and come into a headspace – and a ‘heartspace’ – that allowed action without unreasonable guilt. YEARS passed, my friends; this is not something that can, or will, or should be rushed. And when you finally reach this place through the magical alignment of mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual readiness – it won’t be marked by announcement or fanfare; you’ll just know. A few weeks ago, I walked into the building and lifted the same box top I’ve been lifting for years – and instead of breaking down at the sight of Josh’s things, I smiled, and my heart softened… and I knew it was time.
If you are also wading through the fog of grief, flanked by avoidance and disdain for the difficult tasks that lay ahead – please remember this: the sorrow you feel is actually love, now dressed in a different color. You need time to learn how to feel and live in harmony with this new version of love. And it takes the amount of time it takes. Heavy sorrow manifests itself in strange, unpredictable, unexpected ways… it was over two years before I changed my earrings after my son passed – not because I had any particular attachment to the ones I was wearing at the time; rather, because I simply didn’t care about it at all… it was completely unimportant to me, and entirely unnoticed by me until I found myself reaching for a different pair one day. So please be gentle and patient with your heart – and with the hearts of others in your life or along your path who have been touched by such grief. Recognize that this difficult place which seems so unsurmountable is also an opportunity; an open invitation to look to God for the strength and guidance required to get through it. On days when you are struggling, seek out what adds salve to your scars… for me, that is spending time in nature, chasing Autumn’s amber leaves and glowing gold petals in my garden, and listening to God and Josh talk tenderly to me in flowers. Slow down, fold inward, and listen to your heart… and when it tells you that you’re ready to take the next step, take it boldly, and in the name of the untouchable, everlasting love you carry… it was there before, it will be there during, and it will remain there forever after. Grief may be timeless - but so is love… and YOU are its lasting and trusted keeper.
“Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind”
William Wordsworth
