 Anniversaries seem to include a lot of math. How many years have we been together? How many years has it been since we did this or we did that? And each time you do the math somehow, it still doesn’t seem accurate. How could it be that long or that short? Today would be my 23rd wedding anniversary. Coincidentally our anniversary day math equals our “would be” years. I just realized this writing the title!
This day, especially, still leaves me in a melancholy mood. The sorrow is not quite as severe as it was the first year, but it manages to sit on my chest like a brick. ❤️🩹💔 Just yesterday I was talking to someone about their “would be” 40th anniversary and she said, “you were so young to lose your husband.” My response, “yes, but it still hurts no matter how long.” Our grief and sorrow is not for comparing. It is different for sure but thinking, “oh they were married longer so it hurts more or it hurts less”, is not always accurate. Comparing is not fair in life or in death. Of course, there are a lot of things that aren’t fair in the world - I know there’s a whole lot we can say about that and I probably have at times. Anyway, as I attempt to process the thoughts and feelings in my mind and heart today I am still thankful for saying, “I do” and “until death do us part” on May 18, 2002. I still greatly wish Josh and I could be celebrating another anniversary. If I add in the seven years of dating, I guess we’d be 30 years together at this point - crazy math once again. The bonus is that I got some added family members out of this mix that I still get to call my own. For that, I am very thankful. I am not an expert on grief, but I have lived it and there’s a lot of talk about you not moving on from grief. It’s true, you don’t just move on. I call my blog Grieving On, not because it’s about moving on, but I feel like I am carrying it with me so I’m grieving on. I’m grieving on in the sense of movement. On days like today, the movement is not as active but also life still happens around me. There are new memories and joyful moments still happening. Even still, the day can feel a little bit like sticky mud where it’s hard to gain traction. Even if trying to make the best of a sticky situation, mud pies don’t always taste so good. So a sigh for a Happy/not so happy anniversary. But a smile for the love I experienced and the joys we shared as Mr and Mrs. Brown. 🤎
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 Mother’s Day: 🌸 👹 I've decided this day is like an eight-headed monster. It's odd and unpredictable, with elements of both good and bad.
I can’t think about this day without thinking how fortunate I am to have had a good mom. She supported me growing up, we had fun, we had adventures, and she inspired me often with the way she cared for our whole family and her friends too. [Photo caption in case you don’t make it to the end of this long post: this was me and my mom probably around my senior year of high school.] Along with the good side of monsters, I also am thankful for bonus moms - including my stepmom, Morgan, who stepped into care for our family - and especially my dad - for many years now. She is a thoughtful, creative, and caring lady. Then there's my mother-in-law, Kim, who loves everyone with such grandeur. I know her heart is still broken with the loss of her son but because of that we connect in a whole new way in life now- but she has always been my cheerleader and she’s a treasure! The final piece includes bonus moms, my aunts, friends, and ladies who fill (and filled) the role my mom might have if she was here. They also provide support in their own way. This includes the moms that I am so proud of who surround me from my sister-in-laws Julie and Erin - to dear friends who are giving their all to raise amazing kids in not always the easiest of times. Now for the other side of the monster - the less pretty side. This is the fact that my mom is no longer on this earth and hasn't been for over two-plus decades now. I still miss her. Someone recently stopped by the grief center where I work, and in the first couple moments with tears in her eyes she said, "It’s been four years since my mom died, and I just can’t get over it." I responded with, "I get it." What I didn’t say was, “It's been 28 and I am not really ‘over it.’” The next monster sits adjacent to this one and is the fact that Josh isn't here. He knew my mom too and knew the effect my mom’s loss had on me. He was one of the first people at the hospital when she died, and sat beside me for many tearful moments - this included the times we sat in many, many doctors offices trying to figure out kids, which is the seventh monster. The fact that despite all efforts - numerous medical procedures and failed adoption processes - our dream of kids didn't happen. This is a hard journey for anyone trying. It's hard even when kids are the outcome. It's a process of resilience and trust. For me, I am not sad we tried. I am sad about the results. The final monster is just the ambiguous one that is kind-of all the thoughts about the world. The what ifs, questions, and more. I'm not sure what this piece is but it's there. Maybe it's the one that is the true author of this post. The one questioning, "Why even write about this, but then again, why not?" It's the monster giving voice to the complexities that come with these special holidays in life - including a grandma with Alzheimer’s and the times when we celebrate, even if we doesn't always feel like it for any number of reasons. It is a way to process and to place a little complicated candor into the world as we know it. So ... “Happy Mother's Day!” I say while looking at a new favorite photo my cousin recently found of my mom and I from years ago. I love the smile on both of our faces. This photo is a treasure as it brings back memories of the times we laughed, shopped, adventured, and shared life together. Easter continues to be an interesting marker in my grief journey. There are moments when I feel the grief emotions less and other times, more. This year, it is tipping on the more side. For the past several years, I have worked on a church staff which meant the week and day was quite busy. Busyness has a way of helping you deflect grief emotions (sometimes). This Easter, I am not working at a church but instead work at a local grief center, which means I am continually surrounded by new stories of people navigating heartache and loss. I talk about grief often with colleagues and new people I meet. If you have followed my journey you know I don’t shy away from the topic and have been open about my journey. I have had many conversations over the years but this new angle has put me in a more reflective mood for Easter 2025. My mind drifts back to a couple specific Easter scenes. One 6 years ago, Easter weekend - Josh and I spent Easter in the hospital in Arkansas after learning he had a brain tumor. Rewind 27 years, and in the afternoon of Easter, my family was saying an earthly goodbye to my mom on a hospital bed as she died of cancer. There’s a depth of sorrow for this holiday that spans many decades. As I sit in a cabin, on a rainy Easter morning in Oklahoma, before heading to a church service in a place I have never been, I sigh as I feel the weight of that sorrow deep in my heart. It lingers even as there are no good moments are in my current view. Turning the page to the topic of Easter and I find God bursting on the scene once again to declare death has no victory. There is so much hope in this declaration. Hope that the sorrow I feel for loss will be erased and hope that I just might see my loved ones again in some way. On Good Friday I attended a church service and this line stood out to me. “Hope is as close as your story.” I wrote down the line as I thought this is so true. Hope is in fact the central theme of my story. As I journey through each season, through the hills and the valleys, through the joy and sorrow, the phrase hope keeps appearing as I turn the page. The hope of Easter, gives hope for another day. No matter what happens in life, the hope of Jesus remains. So whether you are still standing in a puddle of collected tears, if you are trying to shield away sorrow or are figuring out how to walk in the rain - in hopeful flower boots - I hope that as you encounter Easter this year, you get a glimpse of God’s great love for you. 💙💒 I hope that no matter what you are facing and feeling - whether it’s your first Easter without someone you love or the 50th etc., - that you will embrace the compassionate, gentle Savior who is with you along the way.   The moment I hear someone else has lost a loved one, particularly a spouse or significant other, my heart sinks a little. I hate it. I hate it because I know it. I am flooded with empathy and reminders of how I have felt or even, at times, still feel. While the details surrounding grief are often different, there are pieces that still look and feel the same. There are parts I wish I could fix or provide a different solution for the depth of pain that I know someone is now experiencing. Sadly, there are no simple solutions to questions and heartache. It simply takes time. Time to sit with the feelings and questions you now face. It takes strength to sit in the silence of a home that was much louder than it seems today. Above all, it takes a new level of hope and belief that there is more to this weary world than the inevitable sting of grief that breaks our heart more often than we want. For the past couple weeks, my mind and heart have been processing the loss of my boyfriend’s father, Jerry. This man lived an incredible life for 88 years, which we all agree was still too short. He lived with purpose and resilience, he took chances, had adventures, and loved his friends and family well – including his wife, Dee, of 67 years. Throughout February, I spent time with Jerry and his family in the hospital until the last day. I helped with funeral plans, and was there for some of the “firsts” that happen when someone dies. Being in this space felt familiar, I knew what things could happen next. I understood how sorrow would ripple out and trigger greater waves of grief. The anticipation of knowing didn't make it easier, but it did offer greater perspective and understanding. Still, I hate it. Right after Jerry’s passing, I even kicked the snow and exclaimed, “Grief is dumb.” It is frustrating. It hurts. So what’s the positive here? Yeah, that's the tricky part. As I look at my own journey, I can still find a thread of hope. Don't get me wrong, the hurt is very real and all the parts of grief from acceptance to bargaining to ridiculous tears, to questioning everything in between remains complex. The positive in this particular moment is that I have been able to sit alongside another family and simply say, “I know and I’m here.” It is an odd turn of events stemming from losing a spouse that brought me to a point of where I am now. I linger in this space where I can support a grieving spouse, son, and dear family members. It is a unique arena where I can talk about Josh in the same space as Jerry – even though they never met or knew each other. It seems somewhat surreal at times. As I continue to process grief and look deeper into the reflecting pool, I continue to see God’s grace and strength, there is even a shimmer is beauty in the reflecting pool. Of course, just like any pool of water, there are times when it gets murky or muddy and I have to take time for things to settle. It's in the murky moments when it seems particularly tough. How long will it take to see the beauty again? The answer is never quite the same, but it does come, it always does. If you are feeling a little lost or hopeless in your grief journey, keep holding on. Remember that you are loved and know that time provides space for hope yet again.  Photo by Jenn Brown - Reflections  A Christmas grief-bomb hit me tonight. And the really crazy thing is that I did not expect it AT ALL. As you may know, I'm pretty familiar with grief conversations and have learned to watch for triggers and signs. I know when things might be hard - anniversaries, birthdays, etc. Entering my fifth Christmas season without my late spouse, I have felt pretty good - even with recent life changes (new jobs, patterns, etc.). Yet tonight, I found myself suddenly crying at the end of an enjoyable evening. Here's the scene. I said goodbye to my in-law family after our family Christmas gathering at a new place, walked my two nieces across the street to see a big Christmas tree, helped them get in the car, and then headed to my own car. I paused and glanced across the street at the church where I got married 22+ years ago and the thought hit me, "That's where it all began, the merging of our families." Then, suddenly, I was in tears. Dang. Attending a Brown family function without the person who gave me his surname is easy because this family is so much a part of me. At the same time, carrying this name also represents a lot - including a missing piece, a missing person. And it isn't that he is out of town or sick. It is that he is no longer part of this world or these celebrations. And even after five years of learning to accept this truth, it’s still tough. His light, laugh, smile and presence is missed! Grief is so complex, as are the emotions that follow closely. Tonight was filled with much great joy, hanging out with family and enjoying the young kids' eyes sparkle with moments of delight. Hope, peace, joy and love filled the air. So how does sorrow sneak into that? I am not sure. Maybe it's the contrast that causes it to appear so easily. No matter, I find myself puzzled. Interestingly, this day also included attending a church service. During the message, a Bible verse was shared that I don't really remember hearing before. It contained the words Simeon said to Jesus' mother, Mary, after her son’s birth, speaking of Jesus future, his death (and resurrection), and even the heartache she would experience. "And a sword will pierce your own soul, too." (Luke 2:35) As I processed this piece of Scripture earlier, I thought, this is what grief feels like - a piece of my soul has been pierced and I am here still without someone who was (and still is) greatly loved. I wondered how Mary felt after watching her son die, even for the good of all. I expect it was a mix of emotions. Tonight's emotional surprise pulled me back into my grief a bit. It had me asking, "What is this!" as I sighed and wished the sting of death didn't linger with such intensity. I also gave myself permission to feel it, even if it didn't make sense. Once again, when I think there isn't anything else to say, there is another layer that appears. Friends, grief is complicated - no matter how long it's been. If you're grieving this Christmas season, I hope an emotional bomb doesn't hit you, but if it does, know that you are loved and that hope, peace, joy and love are still very much available even within your grief journey.  A fun memory and photo of Josh serving as a host at a Christmas Eve Service during our time in Nevada.
It’s another special day, the date of birth of someone dearly loved … Josh Brown. It is also the birthday of many others who are loved, but, of course for me especially I am thinking about Josh. Recently the classic song "To Love Somebody" written by Barry and Robin Gib and released first by the Bee Gees has been in my mind. I’ve played through it a few times on the guitar and today especially the words seem to resonate as I think about the great love stored up in me for the person whose birthday it is. “You don’t know what it’s like Baby, you don’t know what it’s like To love somebody To love somebody The way I love you.” I initially think…that’s so true. No one can know what it’s like to love him the way I do but then I take a second look around my friends, community and even people I’ve been sharing a grief journey with and I realize that indeed other people DO know what’s like. They know what it is like to love someone greatly. This person could Josh (his friends and family) but this same depth of love is what another might have for their parent, sibling, friend or spouse. Can someone feel exactly the same as I do for Josh? Probably not, but they can still relate. The beautiful and hard element of grief is that the depth of our love for the person is what causes the grief to hurt so much. It is what has us feeling alone and convincing ourself that no one could possibly understand how I am feeling. The truth is, in our grief we can relate one to another and we are bonded in a unique way. As I celebrate Josh’s birthday, I am encouraged to keep loving other people. It doesn’t have to be a comparison of how much I loved him compared to someone else - it can be whatever it needs to be. What a joy it is to love and care for someone else and to celebrate their life both here and in Heaven. On this day, I took a moment to light a candle on water as a way remember this love - not that I could forget. It was a good pause on the day. Keep loving friends! ❤️🕯️ And of course, happy 47th birthday Josh.  Across from my campsite site on this 5th anniversary sits the Branson Belle. This tourist spot is your typical attraction with sing, dancing and overpriced food. The last time I was on it was in March of 2019. Josh and I, with my aunt Brenda, uncle Dan, and cousins spent time playing around and also talking about ministry and life changes. Of course, we had no idea the next month would include a brain cancer diagnosis. While I have been looking at the Belle from my campsite for a few days now, there it was again this morning as I sat drinking my coffee, wondering why I decided to spend time reflecting on this sad date. In a way, I am just torturing myself by dwelling on the sorrow. On the other hand, I think it is important—especially this year. Often, due to culture and our own desire not to feel or wrestle with grief, we avoid mentioning anniversary dates like this. It just seems awkward, and at times, it’s too hard—too hard to explain, too hard to process, etc., but date markers like this are part of the story; they are part of us. This year especially, friends and family have commented, “How can it be 5 years?” I agree and for some reason #5 feels weightier. I have no idea why, but it does. I admit I didn’t want to just sit around being sad all day staring at the water, so I also spent time having fun by going to a theme park (Silver Dollar City). This was a good way to honor Josh, as our lives together and apart always had a mix of joy and sorrow—laughter and tears. It was a great afternoon soaking in the attractions, looking at the many, many pumpkins, and riding rollercoasters in good company. Returning to the campsite for one last night, as the campfire flickered and I could still see the lights of the Branson Belle faintly. In the photo with this post from 2019, I wondered if, somewhere in the background, you could see the campground (but I couldn't tell). To close out this day, there’s not much more to say but, “Wow! It’s been a season!” I expect Oct 1 (and the beginning of day 5.1) will offer some new elements in my grief story. I know there will continue to be healing. My prayer: Lord, let me lean into your love, faithfulness, and comfort in new ways in this next section of time. Again, thank you for a life and story with Josh by my side for many years.  One more day . . . it's a common phrase uttered in life. Could I have just one more day? This is especially true when thinking about a loved one that we want to spend another day with. Looking back I ponder, "Would I have changed anything about Sunday, Sept. 29, 2019, if I knew it was the final day?" (Sidebar: It’s interesting that this year is also a Sunday). I can’t think of anything I would have changed. At the moment I was trying to hold strong and give all I could to support my husband's needs. Friends and family were right there too encouraging us in the best ways they could. So here we are today! And I find myself pondering how the past five years have went both fast and slow. I analyze how these years have impacted me emotionally, spiritually, physically and mentality – and yes it's impacted every part. Interestingly, on my drive to the campground tonight I listen to a perfectly-timed sermon from Dr. Barry Jones (thank you!) titled Moving Toward Healing. He talked about the great comfort God offers each of us, and how we, as people wounded by the hurts of this world (grief, etc.,) can offer comfort. “He wants to use your life and mine as part of his process of bringing healing and comfort to others. . . . We who have experienced the wounds of this life, are unique positioned to be used in love’s service. To bring God’s comfort to those around us.” What a challenge and such rich truth. From the beginning days of sharing our journey to continuing to write about my grief process, my heart and desire has been to be an encouragement through honesty. To be a space where the weight of grief can be acknowledged and shared. Diving deeper into what it means to be a Wounded Healer is a beautiful challenge on this eve of Sept. 30. It is also one that God has brought to mind many times over the years. Even as I attempt to do this, I know it is easy to get stuck with the questions of “But how? How often? Am I helping?” But maybe it’s more simple (less overthinking). To be a wounded healer simply means acknowledging the hurt and grief when we see it. It's following through on that Holy Spirit prompting and simply asking someone if they are ok. It means continually pointing people to the source of all hope and compassion. Looking up at the night sky this evening while sitting by a campfire, the Big Dipper constellation took center stage. Resting in the idea of Christ being my source of comfort, the thought came to mind that it's like a big scoop. I imagined God scooping up all my hurts into the rectangle. Then I imagined picking up any remaining (stubborn) hurts by my fingertips and placing them into the Big Dipper space – essentially giving these to God one by one. I know this is an abstract way of thinking about it, but I think God’s comfort can show up in so many ways from a perfectly-timed sermon to a constellation in the sky. I hope God's great comfort is evident as you rest or wrestle with your grief. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in ALL our troubles." – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4  |
Author: JennHi! It's Jenn Brown, writing my story that is now slightly different as we enter a season of new grief. On September 30, 2019, my dear husband Josh passed away after battling brain cancer. Archives
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