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One week prior to September 30, I had already considered how I might process the upcoming anniversary. This year marks five years since my beloved Josh left this world. It really is wild to think it has been 5 WHOLE YEARS! My grief blog these days is a bit more sporadic, but there are still moments of emotion that come out of the blue. Processing and writing about these helps (at least me!). I continue to process how I feel about Josh’s physical absence from my life (his spirit seems to still be in many places). Approaching this anniversary (of sorts), I decided to write a blog post everyday starting five days before the 30th. This would mean starting on the 25th and posting each day. Yet, as the 25th came, my day filled up with work, Bible studies, dinner and various conversations. I got home at a reasonable time in the evening with the idea in mind to sit down and write but instead found myself cleaning various paper piles and reorganizing TV and speaker wires unnecessarily. Writing about my aching heart that I still carry with me did not seem appealing – even to someone who loves to process and write. So here I am a few minutes past the fifth day writing with this thought in mind: What have I learned in five years?
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With the marker of Sept. 30 in mind, I find myself explaining why I am taking off work next Monday. In doing so, I wonder why I feel weird setting aside this day - is it still needed? There are things to do, projects to focus on, distractions that could be welcomed. It has been 5 years after all. Yet I hold steady to the planned pause for the 30th of September as an element of self care. Resting in nature and thinking about all the layers of good and hard related to Josh seems fitting. During the past few months as I have helped facilitate grief groups I've heard people share frustrations after being told, "Don't you need to get it together, it's been 10 months, a year, etc.." Yet here I am looking at 5 years and still know I need time for processing. In wrestling with all of these thoughts and feelings what I realize is that as a culture we are quite busy, it is rare to really take the time to pause, reflect and remember. We put all kinds of phrasing to it - some well intended, some not . . . “They would want you to keep going” "That's just life." "Keep on truckin'" ... so we do. We keep going and we forget to pause or just skip over it. Of course we don’t forget the people we loved, we don't want to, but we might forget that we are still carrying a wound with us in some way, a scar that aches like a former broken bone might when the weather changes. It's just harder to see those inside scars. We may not even know why we feel more tired or emotional after certain times. If we take time to rest when we feel a little achy or tired physically, why not do the same emotionally. It's really ok to give permission for rest and remembering in a unique way. It doesn't mean you have a mental issue if you still tear up even after years. I’m currently in a study of Psalms, and this week the study talked about how the Israelites would return together to remember God’s faithfulness. It was annual pilgrimage to remember. They would sing Psalms - like modern day hymns - to remember together. I expect there was much to remember, including people who had come and gone. The Psalms include message of hope, lament and everything in between. Maybe in this now 4-day countdown I am still trying to convince myself that there is still good in the absence of Josh. At the same time I am trying remember that honoring my grief is also good. Thank you Lord for the memories of Josh and times with friends recently have who also brought back to life memories I had forgotten. "My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of Hermon – from Mount Mizar. As the fifth September since Josh’s passing looms closer, it seems this year I am even more emotional. There are probably many factors to the feelings, starting with my friend Scott who once shared an office with Josh. He and his family are relocating to the Ozarks and he will be working at my church with me. I have not seen him in about five years and when he entered my new scene, he tossed out Josh and Jenn so casually that it caught me off guard. People in my new work world don’t lump us together in the same way because they never experienced “us” in the same way. From day 1 it was just Jenn.
That seemed to start the spark of the string of funny feelings leading into this 5 year marker. Around the same time, I decided to train to be a facilitator for a new grief group - which led to more talking about Josh in new spaces in new ways. Sitting in room of people who are freshly experiencing the grief is also heavy. I explain all this as the root of a math equation in some way. Maybe all of this adds up to the reason for my complete crying meltdown as I was practicing my guitar on a Saturday afternoon. Singing a song that had the words “Me and Jim” I subbed in my mind, me and Josh, and the tears began to fall - soon I was in a whole mess of a crying situation, trying to snuggle with my dog for comfort. Just when I think, it’s been 5 years, I’m doing ok, a day/moment like this hits. And I realize I am not so good. My heart still hurts something fierce. I miss Josh so much. As much as I want to love again, I wonder can I really. Is there room in my heart for another, really? Maybe it’s already too full of love, doubt, fear and sorrow? These could-be song lyrics cross my mind, “No matter what I try I can’t get over you by my side. I just want you here.” Some might say the more you hurt shows how deeply you loved. That’s tricky in many ways thinking of the future. The words aren’t really a comfort. It just makes me dive deeper in to self analzying. I do admit, this is a real and raw piece of writing, that maybe is too personal to share but grief is real and raw and very personal. So many times, we don’t talk about it. It’s easier to not tell anyone about our secret, at-home, (or in the car) meltdown moments but they happen. (Feel free to give yourself permission for them). So I share it to remind anyone else that they are not alone in their tears, or even in the feeling of “Am I crazy?” Should I STILL be crying like this? There is no right or wrong way to grieve. As someone shared in the grief group this week, as long as you are not hurting anyone (that includes yourself …e.g. destructive behavior) you can process the emotions as needed - for however long. A good cry for no reason is definitely ok. I say this to myself also for reassurance…as I am definitely feeling a bit weird about it all. I'll be a little less weird feeling in a day or two but who knows what next moment might catch me. I don’t want to talk about you in past tense yet it seems I must  I recently attended a training to be a grief facilitator with a local organization that serves people walking in grief. After two nights of learning how to best support and facilitate a group, we did a "practice session." This group included a wide array of grief experiences, loss of spouses, children, parents and close friends. The timeline of grief extended from one year to 17, at least. The time was beautiful and hard. It is emotional to participate in a group collectively and openly talking about love and death (and crying!).
There was a point where I shared about Josh and I found within my own story that so much of it had an element of “was” and “were.” We were married 17 years, it was a hard time, our love was beautiful. He was my guy. While I know this love deeply resides within me each day there is still an element of past tense that I can’t deny my current reality. I wonder things like, "Do I say, He was my husband?” He is not still in the practical sense. Within the group conversation this concept came up, as it has before with friends and family. A parent simply stated, “He is still my son”. In talking with my sister-in-law she shared she says, "I have two brothers, one who has died." The fact is we can’t just erase these people from existence – even through sometimes it might seem easier in some conversations for fear of an emotional trigger. It is complicated to talk about someone who has died. It’s also harder to say died than passed away, no longer with us, in a better place, lost, etc - those words might take a long time to work out of our minds and hearts even. They may never feel right. For me, this week brought a new layer of grief discussion and processing. Still, the opening line of this post keeps sticking in my mind. Part of me still wants to have a small tantrum like a toddler, stomping my feet and saying, “I don’t want to.” I don't want to talk in past tense, I want you here now. Is there a solution? Not completely, but what I can do is actively love my dearly departed people with the same depth as before. Love is ever present. It is timeless. It does conquer all. I can easily get caught in the grammatical mystery of how to describe my specific reality. I can spend hours wondering which words to use. I can also take a deep breath and simply say a word of gratitude to the God of mysteries. “Thank you for letting me love him,” - there's no tense in this. This same sentiment carries over to many others in my life as well but maybe this week especially it’s for Josh, my dearly departed husband, whom I love.  Watching the waves crash upon the shore here in 2024, words penned over 150 years ago by hymnist Horatio Spafford echo in my mind.
“When peace like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know It is well, it is well, with my soul.” Some may have heard about the grief that riddled Spafford’s life and career with financial losses due fire and deep grief after his four daughters died in a ship wreck. The words to this memorable hymn came from this time of deep hurt. Of course I had to first also look up the word billow to better understand the refrain as it’s not a common word today. A billow is a great wave at sea and also any large mass that sweeps along or rises like waves of the sea, typically clouds, smoke or steam. Fitting. The word captures both the visual of the water and the grandeur of grief. For a moment, when sitting seaside, the hurts and heartache fade away. In my mind I wonder, is this a glimpse of heaven and the peace that resides there? As the waves crash beyond view there is mystery in the unknown. There is peace and a presence that changes once you leave the shore. It’s not that the sea wash away the grief but it does offer an element of healing - healing that continues to be needed. It’s early morning as I write this and the crowds haven’t yet appeared with their baggage (literal and figurative). I wonder how many other people will walk this shore grieving someone or something changing in their life. There is hope, rest assured that extends past the shore. The hope doesn’t wash away the hurt but can provide an anchor for peace. In in tension and emotions, trusting God might seem impossible, yet like the ocean waves I believe God is with us constantly reminding us of his love. It’s like he is gently beach waving at us - ha! - saying, “I’m here.” Maybe he is simply asking us to leave even a piece of our sorrow by the sea so that he can continually find peace within our soul as Psalm 73 suggests: “Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will receive me to glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” - Psalm 73:23-26 (ESV)  Twenty-two years ago, I awoke with anticipation. The day had arrived. Our Wedding Day. There was a timetable mapped out. Before hair, makeup and photos, I had planned to drive out to my mom’s gravesite because it seemed important to share a small piece of the day with her in some way. It was a day that held a small sliver of grief, but overall, it was a beautiful, sunny, much-awaited wedding day. The flowers, dress, shoes, music, and decor were, for the most part, perfect! Our friends and family cheered with us as we literally skipped into marital bliss. It was the beginning of a new chapter. Married life had its highs and lows, joys and sorrows, but overall life as Josh and Jenn Brown was truly great. It was a life packed with love, adventure, ministry and so much more. Remarkable. Unforgettable. Waking up 22 years later, on May 18, 2024, I wake with anticipation, but it’s much different. How will I navigate the sorrow that still rests in my heart on a day with many different activities planned? Do I even acknowledge this day? The answer is, “Yes. I must,” if for nothing else but my own grieving heart. Within the grief process, there is always a tension of what is and what was. A tension of remembering the beauty of the past and still trusting there is hope for the future. It is a space where both exist, and it is not always an either/or scenario. Today, there is sorrow for what could have been and often what I think “should have been.” There are questions that still linger. Personally, May 18 will forever be special – even if at some point I stop writing about it. There is undeniable goodness in our love story. There is undeniable sorrow in our love story as well. It is a medley of many things including a call to remember God’s faithfulness and goodness throughout. It’s still a day with raw emotions. (Even though I have been grieving this anniversary now for 4 years!) In my quest to find more words for this anniversary day, I’ll just leave you with song lyrics to ponder or listen to. Jason Isbell’s song, “If We Were Vampires,” brings tears to my eyes and also makes me laugh as I think about the debates Josh and I had about vampires. It’s sorrowful yet beautiful. At root, the lyrics speak of a longing for more time together with someone you love – there's seemingly never enough time. We didn't get 40 years together but did have 40 years of life in all. For couples who have or will have 40 years, that is something to be treasured for sure. “If we were vampires and death was a joke We'd go out on the sidewalk and smoke And laugh at all the lovers and their plans I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand Maybe time running out is a gift I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift And give you every second I can find And hope it isn't me who's left behind It's knowing that this can't go on forever Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone Maybe we'll get forty years together But one day I'll be gone Or one day you'll be gone” _______ P.s. Thank you to so many people who have been part of the Josh and Jenn journey for so long, and to the friends and family who witnessed our big day back in 2002. P.s.s. Happy Wedding Day for anyone celebrating on May 18! May God bless you greatly!  Time, love Time, love Time, love, It’s only a change of time. These are the lyrics to a Josh Ritter song that came to mind as I gazed at a photo from 5 years ago. A photo of myself and members of the Brown family gathered outside a favorite breakfast joint in Arkansas. We had just learned more about the brain cancer that had become part of our daily conversation in 2019. The photo now also contained the heading . . . “On this day, 5 years ago.” How could this be? On this same date in 2024 I helped with a race sponsored by an organization that had placed signs with the phrase, “Live Like Josh.” This foundation was started by friends of another Josh who passed away too early. This foundation and group of friends now helps carry on his legacy in various ways. At the event, someone asked me what my necklace meant and I spent time sharing about my late husband and about what had just begun to unravel 5 years prior. Her words caused me pause, "I had no idea you were a widow." Yet again on this same day, I recall that my grandfather Reese said his final goodbyes to this world in 2015. The day. May 4th. What a funny medley of occasions. I use medley even as the word feels a bit too cheerful for all of these facts. Yet the experiences of all these people and places does turn into quite the symphony of thoughts and feelings. A song that points to another word for this day. Hope. A hope that maybe someday all the parts will sound glorious in a whole new and unexpected way. That the joys and sorrows of a single day will no longer seems as dramatic. In the moment, evaluating all the pieces I think, “How can this be my life?” Yet it is and only option I have is to keep walking through the next day. Finding hope in the midst of heartache, finding joy in the moments big and small, and recognizing other people who also feel sorrow and joy maybe even on the same day. If I were to borrow the phrase “Live Like Josh” for my own beloved Josh I know he would once again remind us all that no matter what God is still good and that our hope is much more than what we see. May the memories also linger even when they almost feel awkward. And may the force of God be with you for he offers hope for moments of great delight and despair. p.s. Below is also an older video from our time in Nevada when Josh preached about hope (and the Goonies). It's one of my favorite ones that a friend from Virginia recently reminded me about.  My week began with witnessing the total eclipse for 3 minutes and 34 seconds. It was a spectacular and mesmerizing moment that left me wanting more. The colors of the sky and the ability to gaze at the brilliant white glow for 214 seconds were incredible. It was a moment where time stood still and fly by all at once.
This same week concludes with the 25th anniversary of my mom's passing. Naturally, I cannot help but connect the feelings of grief with the three minutes I experienced earlier this week. How I wish for three more minutes with loved ones who are no longer here. Reflecting back, I recall the fleeting moments of April 12, 1998, when I held my mom's hand for the last time. I have longed for many more minutes with her since. The same is true of my late spouse. It is natural to wish for more moments with those we love — time to say the things we didn't say, to share another embrace, a smile, or a good laugh. It can also be easy dwell on the "what ifs" or "should ofs." There is space for these thoughts in the "no wrong way to grief" conversation, but these thoughts might also take us down a rough path. Even today, I felt myself drifting that way. The sorrow snowball can really get out of hand. With so much in my mind this week, I decided to try something intentional to start the day. I share this as a potential tool for your own heartache and grief. Linking the total eclipse time with my mom's heavenly anniversary date, I set a timer for 3.34 seconds and handwrote a note to her. I just started writing with no plan, I asked questions, shared words of thanksgiving and words from my heart. Taking this time allowed me to sit in my grief and feel it a fresh and honest way. Yes, it was still emotional, but good. If you are missing someone today or might soon cross a marker (birthday, anniversary, etc), consider setting aside time to write them a note. It can offer healing or an emotional release in a way you don't expect. You can set a timer or not; it helps, but no need to be constricted if you are in a writing flow. Take all the time you need to express your heart. Wherever you are in your grief journey, remember you are greatly loved and never alone. p.s. Here are a few things to expect with this process. 1. Tears on the paper Sharing your heart can really bring out tears. No worries! 2. You may need more time. My timer went off too quick, so I spent several more minutes finishing my thoughts. A timer just helps set the stage and also gives you permission to stop. 3. Discovering Peace This could stir up some emotions but also can bring peace to your soul. 4 . The desire to write another letter. Of course, you can write another one! |
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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