Sixteen Years Ago Today

Sixteen years ago today, my dad went to be with Jesus.

That last night was so hard. I’ll never forget it.

Watching him suffer was unimaginably difficult, and that heaviness lingered in the air like fog that refused to lift.

The next morning, when we found him, what surprised me most wasn’t shock or panic. It was peace. Deep, unmistakable peace. His suffering had finally ended.

No more doctor appointments stacking up like unanswered prayers. No more rounds of chemo that promised hope but delivered only more side effects. No more exploratory surgeries that answered one question only to raise three more. No more nights of praying and believing, standing in the gap for healing he didn’t even know how to ask for—only to brace ourselves for another scan, another report, another gentle “not yet.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, he was free. And in that quiet moment, surrounded by nothing but silence and the weight of goodbye, I felt something unexpected: relief.

Grief Doesn’t Arrive on Schedule

The sadness and depression didn’t crash in right away. They waited. More than a year, actually. They arrived quietly at first—almost politely—slipping into ordinary moments like a shadow lengthening across the floor… a song on the radio… an empty chair at the table… the way certain light hits the kitchen window in the late afternoon.

Then, one day, they stopped being polite and became vicious, showing up in the form of anxiety attacks that were so intense they took my breath away. At first I didn’t even realize what was happening to me because he had been gone for over a year. My now 15 year old daughter was just 6 months old at the time and life seemed to be getting back to “normal”. Why was I suddenly stricken with raw, emotional pain that felt unbearable?

But grief is strange like that. It doesn’t follow our timelines. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t care what the calendar says or what well-meaning friends expect when they say, “It’s been long enough—you should be okay by now.” It shows up in its own season, often long after the casseroles have stopped arriving and the sympathy cards have been tucked away.

That’s something I didn’t understand in those early months. But I do now.

If You’re Walking Through Delayed Grief Right Now

If you’re in the thick of it—especially the kind that sneaks up long after the world has moved on and decided you should have too—please hear this:

You’re not broken. You’re human.

Grief doesn’t leave. It doesn’t have an expiration date stamped on it. Sometimes it lies dormant, waiting for the right trigger, the right quiet moment, or simply the space to breathe. And when it finally arrives, it’s not a sign of failure. It’s a sign of love that ran deep enough to leave echoes.

I’ve written more about this journey, including a series I shared during the holidays—when loss tends to sharpen its edges and the cheer around us can feel almost cruel.

The first piece in that series is free for anyone who needs it, because no one should have to face grief alone, and certainly not behind a paywall.

Grief and the Holidays (Part 1)

I Wonder What He’d Think

My dad wasn’t the type to chase headlines or debate politics over dinner, so I don’t know, honestly, whether he’d be proud of the work I’m doing now—or quietly confused by it.

But I hope he’d see the heart… the conviction… the stubborn willingness to stand when standing feels uncomfortable and maybe even unwise.

Mostly, I hope he’d recognize the same daughter he once walked down the aisle—still trying to do what’s right, still trusting God with the outcomes even when the path is foggy.

I love you, Daddy. Some days the longing for our reunion feels almost physical. But there is still work to be done here, people to love, and truth to speak.

Until then—Duty is ours. Results are God’s.

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