Why We Keep Showing Up

There’s a moment at some gravesides that never leaves me. The prayer has been said. The final words have settled into the air. And just before people turn to walk away, someone lingers. Sometimes it’s a spouse who reaches out and rests their hand on the casket a second longer than expected. Sometimes it’s a daughter who leans in, whispering something only she needs to hear. Sometimes it’s a son who clears his throat, nods once, and steps back quickly, as if staying any longer might undo him. That pause tells me everything. It tells me love was here. It tells me something mattered. It tells me this goodbye carries weight. I have learned more about life, love, and legacy at a graveside than anywhere else. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t show up the same way twice. Some people cry openly. Some stand very still. Some tell stories through tears. Some stare at the ground as if they’re trying to memorize it. None of it is wrong. I’ve learned that love is almost always present, even when relationships were complicated. Even when words were left unsaid. Even when the story wasn’t neat or easy. Grief has a way of clarifying what mattered. And standing there, I’m always aware of this simple truth: one day, every one of us will be remembered in a moment like this. Not for what we owned. Not for what we avoided. But for how we loved. I’ve learned that people rarely talk about money at gravesides—but they carry it with them anyway. I’ve seen worry sitting just behind the eyes. I’ve heard the whispered questions later, once the crowd thins and the quiet returns. Who’s paying for this? What happens next? Did they leave anything in place? I’ve also learned that relief has a sound. I t sounds like a deep exhale. It looks like shoulders dropping. It feels like space—space to grieve without also having to scramble. I’ve stood with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those moments, grief was still heavy—love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. I’ve learned that the most meaningful moments are often the simplest ones. A hand placed gently on a casket. A name spoken out loud one last time. A pause long enough to let love catch up with loss. I’ve learned that nobody wishes they had said less. They wish they had said thank you. They wish they had said I forgive you. They wish they had said I love you one more time. I’ve learned that preparation is not the opposite of hope. It’s an expression of it. The families who experience the most peace aren’t the ones who avoided hard conversations. They’re the ones who faced them gently, ahead of time, and left fewer questions behind. Grief will always be heavy. Love makes it that way. But standing at gravesides has taught me this: what we do beforehand matters. Quietly. Faithfully. In ways that may never be noticed—but are deeply felt. And by the time they’re needed, they matter more than words. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty

No one warns you about the nights. People talk about the firsts. The first holiday. The first birthday. The first anniversary. But few talk about the first night. Or the second. Or the hundredth. Because night is different. During the day, grief has manners. It waits its turn. You answer texts. You run errands. You smile when you’re supposed to. You can almost convince yourself you’re doing okay. But at night, grief becomes bold. It becomes rude. All those manners are stripped away. When the house goes quiet, grief doesn’t whisper anymore. It speaks loud and clear. The other side of the bed stays empty. Not symbolically empty, but actually empty. Cold where warmth used to be. Still, where breath once rose and fell in the dark. You reach without thinking, then remember once again that she isn’t there. He isn’t coming back. The bed used to be a shared place. A place of conversation. A place where laughter echoed in the room. A place of intimacy — where you could be fully vulnerable and fully alive. A place where prayers were shared and whispered. A place where silence could simply be, without needing explanation. But now that same bed feels oversized. Like a room built for two that only one person is allowed to enter. Some nights you sleep on the edge, clinging to what feels familiar. Some nights you sleep in the middle, hoping closeness might still be possible. And if you’re honest, some nights you don’t sleep at all. Let’s tell it like it is. Night doesn’t ask how you’re holding up. It quietly tells the truth. And the truth is, you aren’t holding up all that well. You lie there listening to the sounds of a house that suddenly feels like a stranger. Every creak feels louder. Every tick of the clock is heavier. This is where loneliness settles in. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just steadily. People think loneliness lives in the heart. But at night, loneliness lives in the body. It’s the tightness that settles in your chest. The knots that twist your stomach. It’s the questions that arrive at 2:17 in the morning. What if I forget the sound of their voice? Their laugh? How long will this ache last? Is this what the rest of my life looks like? Night has a way of magnifying everything grief touches. Yes, I know people tell you that you are not alone. Friends and family remind you that God is with you. And they mean well, they really do. But at night, faith can feel thin. Even the promises can feel quiet. That doesn’t mean faith is gone. It means it’s quieter than it used to be. Faith after loss often changes its tone. It becomes quieter. Less certain. More honest. The confident prayers from before may give way to borrowed ones. Or to silence. Or to a single whispered name in the dark. If faith feels fragile at night, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It means it’s carrying weight. This is the part we don’t talk about enough. Night is brutal. But believe it or not, night is also sacred. There is the lamp left on because total darkness feels unbearable. Or that favorite chair that still holds his shape, the one no one else can sit in. And the blanket, the one you reach for because it still carries her scent. These small things become altars. Unlikely Altars , but altars all the same. Quiet ones. This is where love still shows up. Not to fix the pain. Not to hurry healing. Just to sit with you while the world sleeps. Please hear this clearly. If the nights are lonely, you are not broken. If sleep comes in fragments, you are not failing. If the quiet feels louder than the day, you are not doing grief wrong. What you are doing is not weakness. You are loving someone who mattered. You are learning how to breathe in a house that remembers. And even when the room feels empty, love has not left it. Not really.