🕊️ A Joyous Reunion Awaits
In Loving Memory and Support of Those Who Grieve
“My wife of 57 years was buried today beside our son, who died in 1941 as a result of a truck accident when he was hitchhiking to take a job. She has longed for him all these years, and now she is with him. I know they are embraced in happiness.”
— Terry Kay
Today, I couldn’t stop thinking about my dear friend Laura. So I gave her a call. The moment she answered, I heard it in her voice—something was wrong.
She told me, “I lost my mom.”
My heart broke. Her mom had been fighting cancer, something I sadly know all too well. Laura said the tumor had spread quickly, and nothing more could be done. That’s precisely what happened with both my mom and Mark. Once cancer begins to spread, there often isn’t much time left. I knew exactly what she meant.
Whenever someone passes—especially from cancer—my first thought is: they are no longer in pain. While I know it’s not quite how the saying goes, I often tell people that there are only two things we are required to do in this life: be born and die.
Yes, it hurts. Yes, we grieve deeply. And while that pain might soften over time, it never truly leaves. We carry it. We remember. We long for one more moment, one more hug, one more “I love you.” But that reunion won’t come until God says it’s time.
📖 Today’s Reflection: Healing After Loss
In today’s entry, Martha Hickman shared a comforting thought from Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the Swiss psychiatrist who helped pioneer the modern understanding of grief. Kübler-Ross believed that none of us dies alone—that our loved ones come to greet us, to welcome us home.
I believe that, too. Deeply.
I’ve witnessed it again and again. Mark believed it as well. He often said my mother sent owls to let him know he was going to be okay. In his final days, I overheard him speaking to his mother—someone he rarely talked about in life.
My cousins once told me their mother saw my sister standing nearby before she passed, even though no one had told her my sister had died. When my mom passed, she was looking at a child she had never met—the baby she lost long ago. I could tell story after story, and maybe someday I will. For now, I hold those moments close.
💌 Grief Shared Is Grief Softened
As I think about Laura tonight, and the long journey she now begins, I also reflect on my own. The grief I carry. The ones I’ve lost. The moments that still catch me off guard.
But I’m grateful for something, too—you.
This blog, these words, this sacred space we’ve created together have helped me more than I ever imagined. And to those who’ve told me it’s helped you too, thank you. That’s why I keep writing.
So if you’re grieving tonight, please know: you are not alone.
I am here.
I see you.
I understand.
If you need someone to talk to, someone who gets it, you can always reach me at:
👉 survivinggriefwithdyan.com/contact-me
🌅 One Day, a Reunion
Someday, I too will be part of that joyful reunion.
I hold on to that promise—that I will see my loved ones again.
What a day that will be.
With love,
Dyan
Hickman, Martha W. Healing After Loss: Daily Meditations for Grief Recovery (p. 231). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.
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