Grief, Grace & New Beginnings

Before losing Jason in September of 2023, I had already known grief.

I had lost grandparents, cousins, and two of my brothers. People I loved deeply who were taken far too soon. Looking back now, I realize my grief journey did not begin with Jason. It began long before him, layered quietly through losses I never truly had time to process.

But losing Jason changed me in ways nothing else ever had.

No matter how traumatic a loss is, there are things you will always remember. Things you carry whether you want to or not. Sounds, places, smells, moments your body remembers before your mind even catches up. Learning to work through those memories can feel impossible.

After losing my first brother, it was the sound of the phone ringing that triggered me. That sound alone could send a wave of anxiety through my body so strong it nearly took my breath away. After losing my second brother, it became locations and again the ringing phone.

Jason was different. I had no escape.

With Jason, the triggers were everywhere. Locations, noises, and ordinary things I could not escape no matter how hard I tried.

I will never forget the knock on the door.

That morning I was getting ready to step into the shower when the Ring doorbell sounded, followed immediately by a firm, hard knock. It is a sound I will never forget. Shortly after losing Jason, I changed our security system. Many people assumed it was about safety. The truth is, I just needed to escape that sound.

Our home, the home we built together, became one of the hardest places for me to exist. Everywhere I looked held a memory. What once felt warm and full of love suddenly felt empty and cold. Even now, the memories still find me. Sometimes they flood me with joy. Sometimes they bring me right back to grief.

When the house began filling with family and friends after the news spread, I became protective of our space. I remember telling my sister not to let anyone into our bedroom because that was all I had left. I wanted the smells to stay. I wanted his belongings untouched. I did not want anyone in our bed because it was the only place that still felt safe.

I did not want his laundry washed. Washing it meant accepting that I would never do it again.

Truthfully, I just wanted everyone to leave.

While people gathered, I felt like I was drowning in my own home. The Sunday after he passed, a church we used to attend was having homecoming. After service, the house filled again with people I did not want there. People who meant well but did not understand what I was feeling. I was angry. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. I was trying to do everything myself while silently screaming for space.

I just wanted our home back. I wanted September 7th back. I wanted Jason back.

The night after he died, after everyone left, I crawled into bed and held his pillow. I smelled his clothes. His towel was still damp from the shower he took that morning. That was the first time I truly understood what loneliness felt like. I cried. I screamed. I survived minute by minute.

On September 8th, Jason left for work and never came home. He was hit head on by a driver under the influence and was pronounced dead at the scene following a collision.

When that knock came to my door, I remember the confusion first. The deputy coroner asked if I was the spouse of Jason Benningfield. I said yes. I looked down and saw Jason’s work badge in his hand, the one he wore so proudly every day.

He told me Jason had been involved in a serious collision. I kept asking where he was, where I needed to go, and if his kids were okay assuming he was on his bus.

He never made it that far.

Then he handed me the badge and told me the most devastating words I will ever hear. Jason was no longer with us.

My knees buckled. I could not breathe. All I could say was that they had the wrong Jason Benningfield. But in my hands I held the proof taken from his lifeless body.

The deputy coroner and the deputy sheriff who stood with him told me the collision was part of a criminal investigation and they could not answer my questions. What has stayed with me just as much as their words was how alone they made me feel in that moment. I felt like an inconvenience to them, as if my being there by myself made the situation harder for them rather than the other way around. They did not console me in any way or offer any guidance about what I should do next. They mostly stood quietly, glancing at each other and asking if someone was on the way. It felt like all they cared about was when someone else would arrive so they could leave.

In those moments, I felt a heaviness I did not know was possible. And in a brief moment of clarity, I remember looking up and saying, “Thank you for loving me and holding me like you did this morning. Babe, you won heaven first.”

Not long after, my phone rang. It was our friend Wendy that worked with Jason. I could hear the tremble in her voice when she said, Sara, please tell me this is not true.

Every minute after that made it more real.

All I wanted was my mom and dad. Jason’s family had filled the house, but my parents were stuck in traffic because of the road closure during the investigation. On their way, they had to pass what was left of Jason’s truck being cleared from the scene. Something that still breaks my heart for them.

Even now, nearly three years later, so many things about that day remain triggers. Some are obvious. Some are quiet and invisible. Sometimes it is a place. Sometimes it is a sound. Sometimes it is a song, like this past Friday at Texas Roadhouse when a song played that I once sang at his funeral just to give people a glimpse of who Jason was. He was one of the good ones.

Triggers can heal. They can remind. But they can also hurt.

When they come, I am usually not vocal about it. I just pause. I breathe. I let myself feel it. Over time, those moments have become bittersweet reminders of love rather than just pain.

Choosing to stay absorbed in the loss can be harmful. It can keep you from seeing the blessings still around you. In the beginning, those blessings feel impossible to see, but they are there. We just have to slowly learn how to recognize them again.

So if you have triggers, I want to encourage you to let them be bittersweet. Let them remind you of the love you had. Let them remind you of your strength. They may take your peace for a moment, but they can never take your memories or your blessings.

And this is the start of the story that got me here. The place where grief began softening into grace, and where I slowly started finding the courage to believe in new beginnings again.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18