The Echo of the Week

This week holds many milestones for me.
Some are marked on the calendar, others live quietly in the tender spaces of my heart.

Yesterday was the five-year anniversary of my cancer surgery.
It’s also the memorial date for my mom.
And a week ago, I celebrated another birthday.

I often find myself wondering why this stretch of days carries such a complex mix of emotions — sadness, a dull ache of loss, and even a flicker of anger. But then I glance at the calendar, and I remember.

The year 2020 was a storm I will never forget.
It was the year when loss became layered.
The year my body held pain and my heart carried too much all at once.

I can still picture myself sitting in the backyard with my family, feeling the weight of it all. The sickness in my stomach was more than physical — it was fear, uncertainty, and grief tangled together. Everything felt fragile.

2020 changed me. It changed the way I see the world and the way I move through it. It changed many of my relationships. It shifted how I hold trust. And if I’m honest, it hasn’t all been neat or tidy. There’s still anger tucked in there — quiet at times, sharp at others. I don’t want it, but it’s part of what remains. It sits beside a new kind of clarity, a deeper awareness of what I can no longer ignore. Some things once felt unshakable, but now I see them differently. And I can’t unknow what I know.

And woven through all of this is the ache that Evan isn’t here. My son should be here. He should be part of the conversations, the milestones, the quiet moments of remembering. His absence isn’t loud to the world, but it is a constant hum in my heart — a space that will always belong to him. I feel it in these weeks especially.

And then there’s Alex. My heart aches for all he has had to walk through — all that he has carried as a brother, as a son, as someone who has also felt the weight of loss. I see how it’s shaped him. How it still does. Grief isn’t something we each carry alone; it lives in the spaces between us, too.

Though time has softened some of the edges, the memories remain. Not as sharp or unbearable as they once were — but present, steady, and real.
These anniversaries are more than dates. They are reminders of all that changed and all that I survived.

I haven’t fully completed this chapter. There are parts of that week that still ache. But I also know healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means learning to live with the echo of what was, while still reaching toward what is.

I will never wish those days on anyone. And yet, they have shaped me in ways I’m still discovering.

And now, as I sit with this week once again, I can feel the ache — but I can also feel the strength I’ve built along the way. The work I’ve done to tend to my grief has brought me to a steadier place. I can hold both the sorrow and the gratitude together now. Both are true. And both matter.

This week, I honor what was lost.
I honor what remains.
And I honor the quiet strength that has carried me this far.

Standing Quietly in the Background

It’s been a while since I’ve shared here. Life has a way of pulling us in many directions, and sometimes the writing pauses while we tend to what’s right in front of us. But as I’ve been watching the turmoil in our nation and across the world this past week, my heart has been stirred again to put words on a page.

Everywhere I look, people are carrying burdens heavier than words can express. My heart is especially drawn to those walking through loss. And if I’m honest, much of what I carry right now feels hollow, shaded with a kind of melancholy I can’t quite put down. Perhaps that’s part of why I return to writing—to give shape to what sits heavy inside.

I am not a first responder—those men and women step into crises with a bravery that humbles me. My place feels different. I see myself as someone standing quietly in the background, waiting for the moment when the noise settles and the grief begins to surface. That’s often when the loneliness sets in, when reality becomes undeniable, and when people most need to know they are not alone.

But waiting is not easy. The hollowness in me often presses to be filled by doing something—anything—that might ease the sorrow I see around me. Yet grief doesn’t move at my pace. It comes in waves of silence and ache, often when least expected. The most loving response isn’t to rush in with answers, but to sit with the discomfort of not being able to fix what’s broken.

What I bring in those moments is presence. I offer what I call being a “heart with ears”—a willingness to listen without judgment, without analysis, without interruption. Sometimes what people need most is not advice or explanation, but someone who will simply stay with them in the silence, even when that silence feels heavy.

The kind of loss many are facing right now—whether in our communities or across the globe—can be overwhelming. It stirs emotions that are messy and hard to contain: sorrow that feels bottomless, helplessness that lingers, anger that simmers just below the surface. All of these responses are part of grief’s language. None of them are wrong. They don’t need to be explained away. They need to be acknowledged.

I don’t step into this work untouched. My willingness to be present with others comes from knowing my own valleys. I know what it feels like to have life split wide open, to carry a hollow inside that words don’t seem to reach. That personal landscape of loss shapes every conversation I hold, every tear I witness, and every silence I honor.

So while I may not be the one who rushes to the scene, I will be there in the days, weeks, and months after—ready to walk alongside, to listen, to hold space. Because grief doesn’t end when the headlines fade or when the casseroles stop coming. It lingers. It reshapes. It leaves both emptiness and unexpected beauty in its wake. And in those tender, ordinary moments, people need presence more than platitudes.

It feels good to return to writing, though it feels tender too. The hollowness remains, but I’ve come to see it as part of love’s echo—proof that what was lost mattered deeply. Writing again helps me hold both the ache and the hope together.

This weekend, I took an afternoon stroll—no agenda other than to breathe, to notice the light through the trees, and to let nature remind me that beauty still exists in ordinary places. As I walked, I was reminded that Jesus meets me even there, in the quiet, in the hollow spaces, in the gentle gifts of creation. His presence doesn’t erase the ache, but it steadies me with hope. Grief can leave us feeling emptied out, but it cannot take away the promise that He is with us.

Perhaps that is grief’s greatest lesson: it teaches us how to live with contradictions. We carry sorrow and beauty, despair and resilience, silence and presence. And at the center of it all, there is Jesus—holding both the brokenness and the hope, reminding us that we are never alone.

My Oscy Boy

"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened."     -Anatole France

“A dog is the only thing that can mend a crack in your broken heart."   -Judy Desmond

I’ve learned that some of our deepest heartbreak comes from the early stages of life. In those moments, we may not have been given permission to feel the sense of loss. Our childhood losses, for many, center around the loss of a pet. We learned in those formative years what loss looks like, and much of that is passed down to us by a parent or loved one. While some of us may have learned the value of feeling our feelings, many of us did not. So now that we are adults, we lack the ability to express how loss affects us. I’m grateful to have been trained to help people understand their feelings, and even as I process loss, I too am learning.

The quotes above help me convey some of what my heart feels today. Back in 2015, after the loss of our beloved yellow lab, Kassie, a friend on Facebook mentioned that she had saved a pup (he was 5 years old) from going to the pound and was looking for his forever home. We, too, were looking for a pup for our other dog, Scooter, so a meet and greet was set up. She and I discussed that if the meeting went well, we would be keeping him, so there wasn’t a lot of back and forth, and our friend agreed. Well, here we are, 10 years later, with a pup who, in human years, is almost 100 years old. He has been a trustworthy friend- loyal, not much of a snuggler, but faithful and steadfast. The decision and timing have been painful. Honestly, I’ve struggled with it. What I can say is this loss feels different for me, and maybe when I’ve had more time to sit in the sadness of it, I’ll be better at articulating my feelings. For now, what I can say is, Oscar, you have been the best boy. I could not have had a better companion. I will miss you so much, and because all dogs go to heaven, I will see you again. Give my folks and Evan a big kiss. I love you, Oscar. Goodbye!

We want to thank Laps of Love for coming to our home and lovingly escorting Oscar home.

My Word for 2025

As the year comes to a close, I reflect on the possibilities that the new year holds. I begin this thoughtful process by selecting a personal word for the year, which helps me consider the journey ahead. I realize I can't enter the new year without acknowledging my journey over the past year. My word for 2024 was “Stable,” serving as a guiding principle as I navigate the challenges posed by my Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD) and other health issues. This past year marked my first full year of retirement, offering me many opportunities to create my schedule. I traveled to Texas three times at the beginning of the year to capture the eclipse, go to a wedding, and visit a friend. We ventured to Europe to explore the charming streets of Salzburg while enjoying a memorable river cruise. I’ve had a trip to admire the vibrant fall colors on my bucket list for years, and that trip became a reality in 2024. As the year wraps up, I look forward to a family getaway planned for Puerto Vallarta. I aim to continue traveling for as long as my health allows. This year took me back to my old house in New York, where I tried to recall aspects of my childhood between the ages of 7 and 11. The late sixties were a significant time, filled with so much happening in our world. That’s all I can remember now, but it was a vital part of my life and fueled my desire to serve others, so I want to understand and give a voice to that part of me. I’m reflecting on this time and the people who impacted me the most. Looking back, I realize that my word for 2025 is part of this process as I revisit those formative years.

My word for the year is “Solace.” This word means to comfort - to ease grief or distress. Other similar words include comfort, assure, reassure, soothe, cheer, console, uplift, calm, elevate, and boost. The word solace is something I hope will move me towards, reassure me of the calling God has placed in me, and give me peace as I think of my future.

Although my passion for photography remains vibrant, I have dedicated more time to assisting others through Grief Recovery. Helping individuals find completion with what they wish had been different, better, or more by using the tools I’ve acquired on this journey brings me profound meaning. Over the past year, I expanded my one-on-one interactions via Zoom, hoping more individuals will take advantage of the opportunity to engage in person during our group sessions. The work I do with Grief Recovery is kept discreet. It takes great courage to undertake the challenging work of Grief Recovery, and my referrals come from individuals who may or may not be willing to discuss it. I have several Grief Recovery groups starting in 2025 and am available via Zoom for one-on-one.

I appreciate your unwavering support this year. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I pray you find the words to encourage and give you hope for 2025!