Celebrating Landon’s Graduation: A Journey of Love and Grief

Today was one of those days with a lot of emotion that I didn’t see coming.

Landon graduated from high school and his ceremony was a highlight for me. Watching him walk across that stage, diploma in hand, confidence radiating from his steady steps, was heart-stirring. He has worked so hard to get here and carried a heavier course load than he needed. His determination, faith, and kind heart shone brightly. With awards in his hand and being selected Student of the Year and Valedictorian, pride doesn’t even begin to cover how I felt watching him take this big step forward. It was one of those moments where time seemed to freeze.

Sitting there watching Landon, I thought about how proud Brenda, Landon’s Grammy, would be. Landon’s not just graduating from high school; he’s stepping into all the potential she always saw in him. As I prayed for him Sunday morning, I almost heard her voice, “Keep cheering him on! This is just the beginning.”

Like all significant moments in life, today wasn’t simple. I felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with my joy today. It’s funny how, as parents or grandparents, we tend to see not just who they are in front of us but all they’ve been up until now. I remembered a toddler who used to tweak a door stopper spring and then laugh hysterically, now stepping into a new chapter of his own life. And as proud as I felt, my thoughts circled back to Brenda. Brenda would have been beaming – no question about it. She had this knack for showing pride so big it made others feel like they were in the spotlight too. She wasn’t just a cheerleader; she was the sort of person who made you feel capable of greatness.

His Grammy for sure would’ve been the loudest one at his grad ceremony. I know she would’ve risen out of her seat, hollering “Yay LANDY!” with complete abandon, the way only she could. I could almost hear her laugh and see that proud smile she reserved for moments like this.

Brenda would’ve adored who he’s becoming. She always had a way of spotting potential in others before it even had the chance to bloom, and there’s no doubt she saw that in Landon. I imagine her pulling him aside after the ceremony and saying something wise but laced with humour, just to remind him to stay grounded. And then she’d hug him, hug him tight, but he never minded that.

It’s no stretch to say Brenda played a big role in shaping our family’s legacy of love, persistence, and belief in one another. Her presence, even years after she passed, is still such a grounding force. She had a way of making the ordinary feel extraordinary, something I often see reflected in Landon. Watching him cross that stage, I thought about how proud she would’ve been—not just for the tassel turn or his speech but for what it represented. Graduations aren’t just academic milestones; they’re about persistence, growth, and stepping into the unknown with courage.

Going into church today, I tried to share my feelings with Jason and Kristin (Landon’s mom and dad). I thought I could describe the thankfulness and gratitude I’d been pouring out to God for their son, but as I started to speak, the words caught in my throat. The tears came suddenly. It was as though everything hit me at once. The pride, the missing piece, the tender reminder that grief and joy often exist together. You think you’re okay, that you’ve processed everything, and then a moment comes, a memory, and it’s like the Grief Committee decided to hold an unannounced meeting right as I walked into a church full of people.

My wife, Glenda, gently reminded me that this wasn’t just a graduation; it was another “first” on my grief journey. Landon is the first grandchild to graduate since Brenda, passed. Her absence, though not mentioned explicitly, was very much present.

Brenda would have loved all this. Oh, how she would have loved it. She was a woman who celebrated every milestone with gusto, whether it was as small as a child learning to tie their skates or as significant as a graduation moment like this. She had a way of making people feel deeply seen and wildly capable.

I see her in Landon today—not just in his accomplishments but in the way he carried himself. His focus, his kindness, his groundedness. These were all qualities she nurtured in him whenever they were together. She had this ability to look right into people’s hearts and remind them of God’s goodness already living there.

Glenda’s gentle words this morning stayed with me all day. This was a “first” without Grammy, yes, but it was also a moment to carry her legacy forward. And we did—we laughed and celebrated the way she would have, and, yes, cried just like she might’ve if she’d been with us.

The truth is, grief wears so many faces. Some days, it feels like a weight you can’t lift. Other days, it’s a quiet shadow, lingering at the edges of even your happiest moments. And some days, like today, it melts into the moments you hold dear, reminding you that the best way to honour the love you’ve lost is to allow it to continue shaping your life. At the graduation party, I was overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions I hadn’t entirely prepared for. There was the evident pride in Landon. There was gratitude for Glenda, who saw connections and truths I missed. And there were bittersweet and unrelenting tears that spoke to how deeply Brenda’s life continues to resonate with our family.

If there was a single takeaway from today, it’s the reminder that life’s significant “firsts” will always nudge us to reflect. They show us how far we’ve come, who we’ve loved, and how much we carry them forward. And sometimes, like on the way into church, those reflections come with raw emotion we can’t hold back.

For Landon, this event was monumental. For us, his family, it was, too, because it gave us a chance to remember, celebrate, and love in the ways Brenda would have championed. Landon’s future is bright—Glenda and I can see it just as clearly as Brenda would have. And as we cheer him on to the next step in his life, I can’t help but hope that we all find moments to celebrate the people we love. Whether you’re marking a milestone, supporting someone through their “first,” or just choosing to reach out, remember that these efforts shape the legacies we leave.

And for those of you who, like me, still find yourself caught off guard by the layers of grief, I’ll offer this piece of what I learned today. Give yourself grace when joy and sadness mingle. Feel it all, knowing that love doesn’t just disappear when someone is gone; it transforms and continues, carried forward in moments like these. Today was one of those moments—for Landon, for Brenda, and for all of us.

Four Years – Not Like Three

I was in Northern Ireland with my close friend and ministry colleague Martin Sanders on the fourth anniversary of Brenda’s death.

Martin’s wife Dianna died five years ago also in the month of August and we have been walking with each other through the grief the journey of grief and it has been so good to share life together.

The fourth anniversary of Brenda’s passing did not feel like the third. Being in Ireland this year was the first time away from my family on the anniversary. The family are doing well. This summer we had been together talking at Barnabas about how we were doing so I am comfortable with that – I just miss them when I’m away.

On the morning of the twelfth, Martin and I were invited for “a cuppa” by Dr. Arthur Peebles. (That is Northern Irish for coming by for a “wee cup of tea.” ) There we were, three doctors together in a quiet well lit Irish sitting room sharing together about the loss of our soul mates. Arthur lost his Ann four years ago and he and I have spoken of this on previous visits. Martin’s Dianna died five years ago August 22nd, and of course I also experienced the second loss of my fiancé Ruth.

We are all reasonably intelligent men and understand that the experiencing of grief is normal, but that doesn’t mean it’s simple. As we shared we discovered it hasn’t been easy for any of us. Often the most common shared experience was the longing for the companionship we once shared with our wives.

Science has demonstrated another dimension of why we crave companionship so strongly. When your loved one is alive, the comfort of their very presence sets off neural reward activity in your brain. After they pass away, adapting to the loss is compounded by the disappearance of this stimulus/reward activity. Over time, we learn to cope with the death and don’t expect this same reward. But if you struggle with complicated grief, your brain continues to crave it.

Dictionary.com defines craving as something you long for, want greatly, desire eagerly, and beg for.

We have come to take the perspective that God made us to crave so we’d always desire more of Him.

It’s Been a Deep Dive

The day hung on me like a millstone. I could feel it pulling me deeper and deeper into memories and feelings.

It was the one year anniversary of when I was to remarry to Ruth Blake. Most observers called it a “GOD” connection and in just eight months our love for each other threw our lives into visions of hope, inspired our faith, and provoked so much laughter. We felt like teenagers and were so happy. Emphasis on the word ‘was’.

Inconceivable

If you are new to my story, Ruth died just 26 days before our wedding day also from cancer. This slid me onto a downward trajectory emotionally, physically, spiritually. It was inexplicable. How could I possibly face this twice in my life? It rocked me to the depths of my soul, leaving me feeling unbalanced, and plunging me into a deep dark place in search of how I could possibly live my life again.

As I shared in my previous post, I have experienced a remarkable healing and a new perspective on all of this. I didn’t drown in my sorrows – although I was certainly sorrowful. Losing a wife to cancer after 40 years of relationship then losing a fiancé of eight months – inconceivable! (I know, you cannot read that word without ‘hearing’ the voice of Vizzini from Princess Bride).

I have talked to other widowers in the past year who cannot believe I am still standing. Yet here I am, able to only in Christ alone. But being able to stand does not mean that the anniversary of our wedding day did not linger on me . It was after all, the death of a dream.

Memory Muscle Cramps

The night before our ‘anniversary’ I had friends over for supper. I enjoyed the cooking and great conversations around the table. But as I was cleaning the kitchen and putting away dishes, my mind-traffic was all about how nice it would be to be entertaining and cleaning up with Ruth. We had dreams of how we would entertain regularly, inviting others into our home. I thought of how she would have loved the young adults gathered here – young adults were her passion and her ministry. Those memories are like experiencing a muscle cramp, a reminder of the death of a dream.

Loss involves pain, and that is unavoidable. Our pain is proportionate to our love, so if you love someone deeply it is going to be more painful should they die. While I have experienced a lot of pain this past year I’ve also learned a great deal. Here are some of my reflections:

Learnings on Grief and Loss

Death is a reality of life. The most precious commodity we have now is our time, and we can give that to others as a gift. When we do, be fully present, and let them know they have been heard.
I realize that true love transcends all things physical and is what sustains us through our lives, with or without our loved ones.
Many people journey through their own sometimes brutal and perplexing life issues. Each day forward provides an opportunity to do at least one good thing for those around me. I can choose to live each day, loving and encouraging others.
Multiple losses creates an opportunity to re-evaluate: Faith, grace, friendships, family, how we spend time, what we invest in. Don’t waste that. Set some time in your planning for reflection and being intentional.
Men suffer more from being bereaved. In a 2001 study by psychologists Wolfgang and Margaret Stroebe they found that men actually suffer more from death of a loved one. So men stop trying to be stoic, admit you are suffering and enter into the healing that follows.
Find some time to laugh. I have seen how laughter is healing. When I’m together with my sons and we get telling stories about their Mom we often end up in joyous laughter at the memories. Even though we still miss Brenda, her influence and life lives on through the joy of her life.
Lean into the pain. We oscillate a great deal on this journey. Some hours avoiding the grief because it hurts, other times wanting to talk about it and draw near. Stay with it until you sense God’s presence with you.
Death of a loved one gives you the opportunity to unzip your soul and let the pain do its work. Do this with a few trusted friends or family. Keep them up to date on how you are journeying and when it hurts. Trust them and allow them in – they will benefit as much or maybe even more than you will. The irony of grief is that the person you need to talk to about how you feel is the person who is no longer here.
I am a pastor, a mentor of Christian leaders but through this season of loss in my life I have a new understanding of what Paul says in 1 Thessalonians 4:13. Over the past year, I have come to know that I can: experience grief but without despair; sorrow but without defeat; sadness but without hopelessness. As Christ followers, we grieve genuinely but hopefully because our grief is temporary. Our grief will come to an end and we (Brenda and Ruth and myself) will be reunited before the Lord together – forever.

The irony of grief is that the person you need to talk to about how you feel is the person who is no longer here.

Pearls

My mother loved pearls. Brenda loved pearls and was seldom seen without them. So I got looking into them one time and found that ‘pearl divers’ are a real thing. It’s a job! They have this amazing ability to swim for a long time underwater with no equipment. They scour rocks and sea bottom for bi-valve mollusks like oysters that just may have a pearl inside. The most valuable pearls in the world are found in the wild, and are often at the deepest depth for these divers.

To help the divers stay deeper they put on weights like a belt enabling them to sink down faster and deeper. There they are then able to stay on the bottom longer extending their search – and that is where they find pearls of great price.

This is like a metaphor for me as I feel like God strapped some weights to me last year causing me to sink to the bottom, but while there I have discovered some pearls.

So the next time you sink to the bottom in life, take a look around. God is there with you and he will reveal to you more of his splendour, grace and love.

Have you had an experience when you hit rock bottom, but then discovered there was some treasure of great price to be found?

What are some of your reflections on loss in your life?

The Long Goodbye – By Jon Pue

Tonight my mom died.

We were getting ready for the evening, about to take turns by Mom’s bedside throughout the night. Jer and I were going to have a glass of wine, but then opted for something a bit stronger. We poured our glasses as Kristin came downstairs and said that Kirstie was crying. There had been a lot of tears over these last couple days but somehow I knew that this was different. We all gathered quickly around Mom to be with her. Her breathing was different, struggling more so than before.

The doctor had joined us and assured us that she didn’t feel any pain as we watched her breathe. Each breath was full of anticipation and wonder, is this the last breath? Minutes turned into hours and the hours felt like moments suspended in time.

We cried. We laughed at memories. But mostly we waited and were not sure what to do. My family and I were just content to be present. Everything had been said, love from each of us was well known to her. We held her hand, her arm, stroked her head in comfort- for ourselves and for her. Her breaths were shallow, and short, and the space long in between. The small breaths lingered like watching a bubble slowly climb into the air until it eventually burst.

On what was her last breath, the doctor listened for a heartbeat, searching and waiting for any sign. But there was nothing to be heard, and he turned to us and said, “she’s passed”.

For all the days I had to get ready, nothing really prepares you for that moment. She was gone. And in an instant, in one moment, she moved from a living and breathing saint to someone who dwells not just in heaven but also in all of us. She remains now in our memories, in our minds and actions, and in pictures that hang suspended from the walls.

Grief and sorrow take over. A sudden realization that life is no longer the same. Everything is altered. I said goodbye with a kiss on the forehead, that was unexpectedly cold for someone whose love was so warm.

Already, as a family, we had leaned on each other greatly. Now more so than ever. What’s ahead? Conversations that come far too early with precious nieces and nephews, and for me the fear of now trying to live without an anchor that has grounded me for years. Seems overwhelming…and it is.

I take comfort in knowing that Mom died exactly how she would have wanted to- at home peacefully, with loved ones close at hand.

It still seems so surreal, like having a bad dream and waiting to be scared awake to reality.

Already, I long for Mom to know my sons and daughters. That they could know the woman she was. I wish she could love them and guide them through this life as she did with me. I rue the times when I go to call her while I drive simply to see how her day was. I must tell myself that I did the best I could with the time that was given to us. And to not fall into the guilt of how I used my time, did I work too much? Should I have called or visited one more time? Rather, I can trust that she knows the deep and unrelenting love I have for her. The moments we have had will never be replaced and never lost.

I thought I was ready. But I was not.

Today marks the beginning of learning how to live again.