Grief, Grace & New Beginnings

The days following the knock on the door became long. Almost like I was just waiting for him to come home, and yet he never arrived.

I kept trying to trick my mind into believing that when the sun came up tomorrow, he would be home. But in my heart, I knew he was already home, his eternal home.

Those early days came with challenges I didn’t even know existed. Feelings that were something you only ever heard about. Feelings I had never in my past been able to empathize with. And suddenly, there I was, smack dab in the middle of them.

After Jason’s wreck, I wanted to hold onto every valuable piece of him. His memory. Every tangible thing I could.

I was on a hunt for his phone. We looked at the wreck site and the only thing we found was his breakfast bar that he ate every morning. We tried contacting the Sheriff’s office, but no one knew where his phone was.

The Sunday following the wreck, with my Uncle’s help, I was able to get to Jason’s truck to retrieve what little was salvageable.

My Uncle came to pick me up, and the drive felt like it took forever.

On the way we passed Jason’s school bus.

The people that loved him and worked with him had taken his bus, washed it, shined the tires, and turned it into a small memorial for people to pay their respects and remember him.

Seeing that bus reminded me that Jason wasn’t just mine. He was loved by so many people.

But nothing prepared me for what came next.

We pulled into the lot and my heart began racing.

As we rounded the corner of the building, there it was.

Jason’s beautiful blue Dodge truck.

Mangled. Smashed. Covered with biohazard stickers stratigically placed all over it.

All I could do was cover my mouth and shake my head.

I was trying to be strong, just like everyone had been telling me I had to be.

But in that moment, I was at my weakest.

I walked to the passenger side and pulled the door open.

It was obvious his injuries were major. It was obvious where he had laid. It was obvious where he had taken his last breath.

There was yellow caution tape covering the floorboard and a white sheet that wasn’t so white anymore.

I started collecting his belongings.

His backpack, saturated.

And then I saw it.

His phone was laying right there on the driver’s side floorboard.

I grabbed everything I could.

His sunglasses. His gloves. Items he used for work.

Every single thing felt like a piece of him.

I crawled into the truck. Someone told me to be cautious, but I didn’t care. I just sat there.

I took in the smells, the sights, and the reality of what had happened.

There was no escaping this loss.

Looking around and trying to make sense of it all made my mind race a million miles a minute.

It hurt.

It hurt like hell.

It was obvious the impact he had taken. Both the truck and his body. I physically remember my body hurting while I sat there. I wished it were me and not him.

I remember talking to him.

Over and over again I told him I was sorry and that I loved him. I whispered it into that truck like somehow he might still hear me.

The anger started to creep in. I wanted answers. I wanted every single one of them, and I wanted them right then.

Because my mind was spiraling.

When we got back to my Uncle’s truck he handed me something to clean my hands.

In that moment, I needed him more than ever.

And he didn’t try to fix anything.

He didn’t tell me I shouldn’t have done that.

He didn’t tell me to be strong.

He was simply there.

Sometimes that’s the greatest gift someone can give you in grief. Just their presence.

We stopped at a Dollar General on the way home and bought a storage container to put Jason’s belongings in.

My Uncle helped me place everything inside and gently gave me advice about what might need to be done with some of the items due to their condition.

When we pulled up to my house, everyone was waiting on the front porch.

I grabbed the container and walked straight to my bedroom.

People followed behind me, asking questions I was not going to answer.

I closed the door behind me.

I placed the container in my closet.

Then I went to shower.

I had to wash off what was left of my husband from his truck.

Even that moment was hard.

I remember not wanting to get rid of the leggings I had worn that day.

They were a part of him too.

Would they ever be clean again?

Probably not.

But they were a reminder.

In grief, sometimes the only things that get you through are the things you can touch, smell, or hold onto.

Even though I had a whole house filled with memories of Jason, I knew something about that container in my closet would help me.

Those were the last things that had touched him.

The last things that had attempted to protect him.

And somehow, they were also the beginning of the answers I so desperately wanted.

That day showed me a strength I didn’t know I had.

Even now, when I look at pictures from that day, my mind still races with a million thoughts.

I will never forget what I saw.

I will never forget what I smelled.

But in the strangest way, that moment became part of my healing.

Not because it was easy.

Not because it was something I ever wanted to experience.

But because grief sometimes requires us to face the hardest places imaginable.

Not for attention.

Not because we’re strong.

But because when someone you love is suddenly gone, you want every last moment you can possibly hold onto before everything grows quiet.

Before the conversations slow down.

Before the memories stop being shared.

Before the world keeps moving while yours feels like it has stopped.

Sometimes I still close my eyes and imagine sitting in that passenger seat again.

Because even though I wanted him back here, Jason won heaven first.

Grief has a way of taking us to places we never imagined we would have to go. Places that break our hearts. Places that leave images in our minds we will never forget.

But sometimes those very places become part of our healing.

Not because they are easy, but because they allow us to face the reality of our loss in the most honest way possible.

Grief is not neat. It is not quiet. It is not something that can be rushed.

Sometimes healing looks like holding onto the smallest tangible pieces of someone we loved with our whole heart.

And sometimes healing begins in the very places our hearts broke the most.

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 so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.

2 Corinthians 1:3–4

This is grief. This is grace. And somehow, this is where new beginnings begin.