Two Years Without Her
Learning to Live With a Grief That Doesn’t Shrink
There are some losses that time doesn’t soften. They don’t fade, they don’t blur, and they don’t politely step aside so life can move on. They stay. They sit with you. They shape you. Grief this deep isn’t an emotion, it’s a geography. And I have been walking it faithfully, honestly, and with a pastor’s heart that still knows how to be a son and a grandson.
Two years ago; February 3rd; I stood behind a pulpit I never wanted to stand behind. I preached my grandmother’s funeral. I honored her life, her sacrifices, her stubborn strength, and the quiet ways she carved out space for me to have a chance at something better. I spoke as a pastor that day, but I grieved as a grandson.
And now, two years later, I’m realizing something I didn’t have language for then: grief doesn’t disappear just because life keeps going. It grows with you. It changes shape. It shows up in unexpected places. And sometimes, it hits harder with time, not softer.
She Gave Me More Than a Childhood—She Gave Me a Future
My grandmother didn’t have much, but she gave everything. She sacrificed so I could have stability. She endured so I could have opportunity. She carried burdens so I could carry dreams.
When I look at my life now; the ministry I lead, the doors opening, the stories unfolding; I see her fingerprints everywhere. I’m thankful for the life she afforded me, even when it cost her more than I understood at the time.
And that’s part of the ache: I wish she could see what her sacrifices produced.
There’s So Much She’s Missed
My daughters have grown in ways that would’ve made her beam. They’re thriving, blossoming, becoming more than either of us could have imagined. I see her in their laughter, their stubbornness, their tenderness.
And then there’s my marriage; strong, steady, thriving. She was proud of that. She saw the way my wife and I loved each other, the way we built a home rooted in faith, joy, and partnership. She prayed for that kind of stability for me long before I ever understood why. I wish she could see how far we’ve come, how much we’ve grown, how deeply we’re flourishing. She would’ve smiled that knowing smile, the one that said, “I told you God would take care of you.”
There are opportunities I wish I could tell her about; moments I wish I could call her for, stories I wish I could share. I want to hear her say, “I’m proud of you.” I want to hear her laugh at my jokes. I want to hear her tell me to slow down, rest, or eat something. I want to hear her say, “no thanks necessary”.
Grief is strange like that. It’s not just missing who they were. It’s missing who they would’ve been today.
This Pain Is Different
I’ve tried to muscle through it. I’ve tried to shrug it off. I’ve tried to treat grief like something I could outwork or outrun. But losing a parent; or the person who functioned as one; is a unique kind of pain.
It’s not a wound you stitch up.
It’s not a season you push through.
It’s not a storm you wait out.
It’s a reorientation.
A reshaping.
A reminder that love this deep leaves a mark this deep.
And honestly, I no longer have the ability; or the desire; to pretend I’m unaffected. This grief is real. It’s heavy. And it’s part of me now.
But Christ Has Her
This is where my hope rests. Not in clichés. Not in forced positivity. Not in pretending the ache isn’t real.
My hope rests in Christ; the One who conquered death, the One who holds her now, the One who promises resurrection, reunion, and restoration.
I don’t grieve as someone without hope.
But I do grieve as someone who loved deeply.
And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe grief is just love that refuses to die.
Two Years Later, I’m Still Learning
I’m learning that gratitude and grief can coexist.
I’m learning that missing her doesn’t mean I’m stuck.
I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
I’m learning that Christ holds both my grandmother and my sorrow.
And I’m learning that the best way to honor her is to live the life she sacrificed for; fully, gratefully, and with the same quiet strength she modeled.
If you’re grieving someone you wish you could still call, still hug, still update on your life; know this: you’re not alone. And your grief isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign that you were loved well.
"Grief is strange like that. It’s not just missing who they were. It’s missing who they would’ve been today." That's beautifully expressed and opens up a truth we might be inclined to miss in our loss. Thank you for this beautiful reflection.
Wow. First, sorry for your loss. Second, what a powerful and insightful essay on grief. Third, thanks for the effort it took to write this. Fourth, may the Lord continue to bless you in bearing this kind of fruit.