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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. 
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 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   I am writing this 2-day-before post really early one one day before because every single moment of the second day before filled up. What is most interesting about this day is that nearly everything that I did happened because Josh isn’t in my daily life. That sounds incredibly weird to say. I started the morning with kayaking, something I did not do until after Josh died. Then I sent to a MSU Bears ballgame to watch my boyfriend’s son play in the band - clearly I didn’t have a boyfriend before. (And yes dating again post loss is also a wild thing to navigate). Then I played a music gig until midnight with some friends who I have met since doing Open Mic nights on a regular basis over the past four years. None of these people I knew before 2021. I wouldn’t have imagined even doing this before. It was quite the night of music and having people parachuting in behind our band. Quite epic. Maybe this post echos of the things I have learned post from Day 5, but these are all unique elements I have taken on as new pieces of my life and story. Yes Josh was a big supporter of me in my love for music and I am sure he attended some Bears football games when I played in college but I am not really sure. I do remember even when he was pretty sick with brain cancer, he came to my final performance of a girls singing group that I was leading - it was a special memory. In general, he was a huge supporter of my various endeavors – whatever they might be. Today, many other people pick up pieces he played as my cheerleader and sidekick. It’s a unique and beautiful collective of people who are part of my story today. Honestly, I feel like I need every one of them, and so many of them don’t even know how much I do. This is part of the abstract, yet important, community that God is often talking about that we need. I can help but think It looks a little bit like an impressionistic dot painting (pointillism I believe it is called). Encouragement dots. As I selfishly soak up this encouragement it is also a challenge to keep being that support to others walking in grief (of various kinds). Let’s cheer each other on more often! Trust me, it makes a difference.  In the countdown to Sept 30, this day was lovely all around. Even in the midst of reflecting on grief intentionally, I realize there is much beauty to grasp in the day-to-day life. Out of curiosity, I looked back at what was happening on the days leading up to Josh’s passing. I found a post from Sept 27 about fall decor, pumpkins and Josh’s love of pumpkin pie concretes. I remember the weight of emotion as I sat in the tentative space of not knowing when my final moment with him might be. I hoped, loved and hurt all at the same time – as many caretakers do. Today, life is lighter. I enjoyed time with friends and leaned into the independence and confidence I have found along this widowhood journey. I hooked up my camper and headed to the perfect campsite right on the water at Table Rock Lake. The cloudy day with windy water and drizzle had its own beauty to behold, but then God put an exclamation point on it with a double rainbow and an array of colors along the shoreline. I couldn’t help but feel gratitude for this moment. It seems along with the heartache of grief one can find gratitude as a nearby companion. Maybe it’s not always easy to emotionally bring the feeling to the surface but it's there waiting for acknowledgement. Much like a rainbow moment, we can even miss the opportunity for gratitude if we are distracted. (I literally almost missed the rainbow because I was goofing around inside the camper). Of course, finding what to be grateful for in grief can be a challenge - because the hurt is real and it stings sharply. Time helps with the hurt but doesn't erase it all. I'm still not "happy" about losing Josh from my life, but know that experiencing grief has given me a strength and perspective that I wouldn’t have otherwise. Everyday I strive to understand it more and pray it makes me a more compassionate person (and on many days it does). As this day ends, gratitude is on the front burner. I am thankful for encouraging friends who sing silly songs with me, friends who text and check on me, and who call me with random ideas about life. I’m thankful for ideal campsites, cute adventure dogs, rainbows and duct tape (which is currently holding parts of my camper together). Above all, I am thankful for a God who sees me through it all and loves me just the same. |
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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