The Grace We Pass Along

Every so often, someone comes into your life with a story that makes you realize how much we can learn from people who have already walked a road we're still trying to understand.

My friend Liz is one of those people.

Liz is in her eighties now, and her experience with widowhood happened many years ago when she was a young woman. Recently, she shared some of her writing with me, including an article she wrote about losing her first husband, Jay, and notes she had made about what helped her survive the years that followed.

I've been reading through those pages, and I've found myself thinking about how much wisdom can be tucked into someone else's life story.

Liz knew when she married Jay that his health was fragile. He had serious medical conditions, and the doctors had warned them that their years together might be limited. They married anyway, understanding there could be difficulties ahead but hoping they would have much more time than they ultimately did.

Jay died before they celebrated their first wedding anniversary.

I was struck by that part of her story because my experience was so different. When Robert died, I had no warning that our ordinary life was about to end. Liz went into her marriage knowing there was uncertainty, yet I can't imagine that knowing made the loss any easier when it finally came.

What interested me most, though, was what happened afterward.

In her article, Choosing to Survive, Liz describes the choice she faced after Jay's death. She was overwhelmed and grieving, and she knew she needed help beyond what she could manage on her own. She turned to God for strength and began memorizing Psalm 23, carrying those familiar words with her through the days when life felt almost impossible.

She also tells a wonderful story about a friend named Dorothy, who had absolutely no intention of allowing Liz to spend the rest of her life sitting alone in her apartment feeling miserable.

Dorothy encouraged her to read Scripture, pray for others, and get involved with a Christian singles group. Liz wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the idea at first. She was grieving her husband, after all, and the thought of joining a singles group probably wasn't high on her list of appealing activities.

Still, she went.

That decision eventually brought new friendships, opportunities to help other people, and a community that became part of her life for years. She later remarried and built another chapter of life she hadn't expected when she was first trying to survive Jay's death.

I love that part of her story because it reminds me how little we can see of the road ahead when we're standing in the middle of a loss.

Liz also shared some handwritten notes that I found interesting. She went back through her experience and identified the things that had genuinely helped her. Some were deeply spiritual, like prayer and studying Scripture. Others were wonderfully practical, like moving to a smaller apartment, returning to work, and having people around her who understood what she was going through.

She also wrote about the importance of handwritten cards, especially those containing a personal memory of Jay. Those were the ones that meant the most to her.

That caught my attention because it's something I've written about myself. People sometimes worry so much about saying the wrong thing that they avoid mentioning the person who died at all. Yet one of the kindest things someone can do is remind us that our loved one mattered to other people too.

Perhaps my favorite observation in Liz's notes was about telling her story. Years after Jay died, she spent time with a cousin who had also been widowed. They talked about their experiences, and Liz wrote that sharing those memories was one of the best things she did for her healing.

I understand that.

There's a particular comfort in talking with someone who doesn't need you to explain why a memory can make you laugh one minute and cry the next. They've lived enough of it to understand the strange ways grief settles into an otherwise ordinary life.

And that's where Liz's story has become especially meaningful to me.

Recently, she read my book, Grace for the Mess, and sent me several pages of notes. She had underlined passages, written down observations, and marked the things she thought might be particularly helpful to other widows.

She told me she couldn't put the book down and had read it in a week. She appreciated the honesty, the humor, and the way I wrote about experiences that are often difficult to explain.

As a writer, I can tell you that hearing those things from someone who has actually lived through widowhood means a great deal.

She also encouraged me to find ways to share the shorter messages from the book, perhaps as a collection of quotes or something small enough to tuck into a sympathy card.

I had already been thinking about how to make encouragement more accessible to someone who might not have the energy to read an entire book. Hearing Liz's thoughts reinforced that idea and reminded me why I wanted to write in the first place.

I think about Liz as a young widow, sitting in her apartment and wondering what on earth she was going to do with the life suddenly in front of her. I think about the people who helped her find her footing and the ways she eventually became that person for others.

Now, so many years later, she's still doing it.

She is still sharing what she learned, still thinking about the people who are newly grieving, and still encouraging another widow who is trying to put her own experiences into words.

There's something lovely about that kind of continuity. A kindness received decades ago can keep making its way into other people's lives, often in ways the original giver could never have imagined.

Liz's story also reminds me how much God can accomplish through ordinary people who are simply willing to show up. Dorothy couldn't take away Liz's grief, but she could invite her into a community. Other friends could write a note, share a memory, or keep checking in. Those seemingly small acts helped Liz find her way into a life she could enjoy again.

I suspect most of us never realize how much our encouragement means to another person. Sometimes we don't even know we're offering anything particularly important.

Liz, if you're reading this, I want you to know that your story still has something to offer. The experiences you wrote about all those years ago are meaningful today, and your encouragement of my writing has meant more to me than you probably realize.

Thank you for trusting me with your memories and for reminding me that the things we learn through grief can continue helping people long after our own hardest days.

I'm grateful our lives crossed paths, and I'm especially grateful that you're still sharing your wisdom.

With Grace for the Mess,

~Stef