Life can change in a minute, mine did.
November 12th changed everything.
One moment, I was a wife of forty-two years, planning dinners watching TV
together and wondering what the next chapter of life might look like.
The next moment, I was a widow.
People say life can change in an instant. I used to hear that phrase and nod politely.
Now I know how painfully true it is.
I still reach for him sometimes when I wake up, or hear his voice one more time.
The quiet is louder than any sound.
But today, I am learning something important: grief is not something we conquer.
It is something we walk through.
And sometimes, the only way through the day is one step, one prayer, and one deep
breath at a time.
Grief is not something you get over, it’s something you learn to live through.
A Different Kind of Loneliness
Loneliness after losing a spouse is unlike any other loneliness.
Friends may visit.
Family may call.
There may be conversations, laughter, even moments that feel almost normal
again.
But there is a silence that remains.
A quiet that settles into the spaces of everyday life.
It is the silence of the one person who used to fill it without effort.
The person who knew your stories without explanation.
Who understood your looks, your routines, your unspoken thoughts.
The one who shared decades of ordinary days—days that never seemed
extraordinary at the time, but now feel priceless.
It’s not just their absence you feel.
It’s the absence of being fully known.
People often ask, “How are you doing?”
And I know they mean well.
They care.
They want to understand.
But the honest answer is not simple.
Some days, I’m okay.
I can smile.
I can function.
I can even feel moments of peace.
And some days… I’m not.
Some days the quiet feels heavier.
The memories come sharper.
The longing sits deeper in my chest.
Some days, I miss not just who he was…
but who I was with him.
And both of those realities exist side by side.
There is no straight line through grief.
No clear path that leads neatly from pain to healing.
There is only this—
living one day at a time,
holding both the good and the hard,
learning how to carry love and loss in the same heart.
And slowly, gently, I am learning…
That it is okay to not be okay.
That it is okay to laugh and still feel the ache.
That it is okay to take this journey one moment at a time.
Because this kind of loneliness is not a sign of weakness.
It is a reflection of love.
And love…
does not simply disappear.
“Never will I leave you;
never will I forsake you.”
— Hebrews 13:5
The Hardest is in the Evenings
Evenings can be the hardest part of the day when you are grieving.
During the daytime, there are distractions.
Errands to run.
People to talk to.
Small responsibilities that help carry the hours forward.
But evenings slow everything down.
The pace changes.
The noise fades.
And the quiet begins to settle in again.
That’s when the house feels different.
Rooms that once held conversation now hold silence.
Chairs sit empty.
The rhythm of the day no longer has someone to share it with.
Evenings have a way of bringing everything closer to the surface.
Memories return more clearly.
The sound of their voice.
The familiar routines.
The simple moments that once felt so ordinary—now deeply missed.
It is in these hours that the absence feels more present.
Not just missing what you had…
but missing who you shared it with.
You begin to realize how much of life was wrapped in the quiet, everyday
togetherness.
The small conversations.
The knowing glances.
The comfort of simply not being alone.
Evenings remind you of what used to be.
But they also reveal something else.
They remind you how deeply you loved.
How fully you shared your life.
How meaningful those ordinary days truly were.
And even in the quiet…
that love has not disappeared.
It is still there.
In the memories.
In the longing.
In the way your heart still reaches for what once was.
And slowly, in time, you may begin to notice something else in those quiet
evenings—
A gentle presence.
A peace that doesn’t come from understanding, but from being held.
You are not as alone as the silence makes you feel.
“The Lord your God is with you,
the Mighty Warrior who saves.
He will take great delight in you;
in His love He will no longer rebuke you,
but will rejoice over you with singing.”
— Zephaniah 3:17