What Love Leaves Behind

August  2026

What Love Leaves Behind

August  2026

What Love Leaves Behind

August  2026

August has always been a month filled with memories for me. Some are joyful. Others carry sorrow. And some, after many years, have become a mixture of both.


This month marks twenty-three years since my husband Tony died.


Twenty-three years is a long time, long enough for life to change in ways I could never have imagined. Long enough to grow older, experience other losses, discover new purposes, and become a different woman in many ways.


Yet love has a remarkable memory.


I can still remember walking beside Tony with my hand securely in his. I remember the way he looked at me as though, no matter who else was in the room, I was the woman he saw.


I remember his preaching. Tony was what I have often called a preacher’s preacher. He loved God, he loved the Word, and he loved people with his whole heart.


We were both ordained ministers, and some of my most precious memories are not of pulpits or church services but of our Wednesday morning devotions at home. We each brought our own thoughts and reflections. We read Scripture, talked about our faith, and prayed together.


At the time, Wednesday morning was simply Wednesday morning.


I did not know I was making a memory.


Perhaps that is one of the gifts that comes with growing older: we begin to understand the holiness of ordinary things.


At hand, reaching for yours.


A conversation over breakfast.


A familiar voice in another room.


Someone knows how you take your coffee.


A prayer shared before beginning the day.


We rarely recognize these moments as treasures while we are living them. We are busy living. Then one day, years later, we realize that what seemed ordinary was extraordinary after all.


Love Changes, But It Does Not Disappear


Grief has been one of my greatest teachers.


It has taught me that death changes a relationship; it does not erase it. I no longer hold Tony’s hand as we walk down the street. I cannot hear him preach or sit across from him during our Wednesday morning devotion.


But I continue to carry what his love gave me.


His love taught me something about being cherished.


His faith strengthened mine.


The life we shared became part of the woman I am today.


And perhaps this is what love leaves behind.


Not simply photographs or anniversaries or stories we tell, important as those are. Love leaves something within us. It shapes how we see the world. It influences how we care for others. Sometimes the love we once received becomes the love we are able to give away.


I have spent years walking alongside grieving people. I know something about sitting with broken hearts. My own losses have not given me all the answers. If anything, they have taught me that answers are often not what grieving people need.


Sometimes they need presence.


Sometimes they need someone willing to sit in the silence.


Sometimes they simply need a hand.


I know what it means to have had a hand that made me feel safe.


And Then There Is Grace


My faith has also taught me that grace does not always arrive by removing what hurts.


Sometimes grace is what allows us to carry what hurts without being destroyed by it.


Grace has allowed me to remember Tony with gratitude instead of only sorrow.


Grace has allowed the memory of his hand in mine to bring a smile.


Grace has taught me that continuing to live fully is not a betrayal of those who have died. It is one way of honoring the love they gave us.


Twenty-three years later, I am not the woman who stood at the beginning of that loss.


Life has continued.


So has love.


And so has God.


As I move through another August, I find myself less interested in counting the years and more interested in giving thanks for what remains.


The memories remain.


The love remains.


And, perhaps most of all, grace remains.


If you are carrying the memory of someone you have loved and lost, I invite you to remember one ordinary moment shared. Not necessarily the great occasions or milestones. Remember something small, the sound of a laugh, a familiar saying, a hand in yours.


Sometimes the smallest memories tell the greatest love stories.


Thank you for spending moments with me. May we recognize the love that surrounds us while we still have the privilege of holding one another’s hands.

August has always been a month filled with memories for me. Some are joyful. Others carry sorrow. And some, after many years, have become a mixture of both.


This month marks twenty-three years since my husband Tony died.


Twenty-three years is a long time, long enough for life to change in ways I could never have imagined. Long enough to grow older, experience other losses, discover new purposes, and become a different woman in many ways.


Yet love has a remarkable memory.


I can still remember walking beside Tony with my hand securely in his. I remember the way he looked at me as though, no matter who else was in the room, I was the woman he saw.


I remember his preaching. Tony was what I have often called a preacher’s preacher. He loved God, he loved the Word, and he loved people with his whole heart.


We were both ordained ministers, and some of my most precious memories are not of pulpits or church services but of our Wednesday morning devotions at home. We each brought our own thoughts and reflections. We read Scripture, talked about our faith, and prayed together.


At the time, Wednesday morning was simply Wednesday morning.


I did not know I was making a memory.


Perhaps that is one of the gifts that comes with growing older: we begin to understand the holiness of ordinary things.


At hand, reaching for yours.


A conversation over breakfast.


A familiar voice in another room.


Someone knows how you take your coffee.


A prayer shared before beginning the day.


We rarely recognize these moments as treasures while we are living them. We are busy living. Then one day, years later, we realize that what seemed ordinary was extraordinary after all.


Love Changes, But It Does Not Disappear


Grief has been one of my greatest teachers.


It has taught me that death changes a relationship; it does not erase it. I no longer hold Tony’s hand as we walk down the street. I cannot hear him preach or sit across from him during our Wednesday morning devotion.


But I continue to carry what his love gave me.


His love taught me something about being cherished.


His faith strengthened mine.


The life we shared became part of the woman I am today.


And perhaps this is what love leaves behind.


Not simply photographs or anniversaries or stories we tell, important as those are. Love leaves something within us. It shapes how we see the world. It influences how we care for others. Sometimes the love we once received becomes the love we are able to give away.


I have spent years walking alongside grieving people. I know something about sitting with broken hearts. My own losses have not given me all the answers. If anything, they have taught me that answers are often not what grieving people need.


Sometimes they need presence.


Sometimes they need someone willing to sit in the silence.


Sometimes they simply need a hand.


I know what it means to have had a hand that made me feel safe.


And Then There Is Grace


My faith has also taught me that grace does not always arrive by removing what hurts.


Sometimes grace is what allows us to carry what hurts without being destroyed by it.


Grace has allowed me to remember Tony with gratitude instead of only sorrow.


Grace has allowed the memory of his hand in mine to bring a smile.


Grace has taught me that continuing to live fully is not a betrayal of those who have died. It is one way of honoring the love they gave us.


Twenty-three years later, I am not the woman who stood at the beginning of that loss.


Life has continued.


So has love.


And so has God.


As I move through another August, I find myself less interested in counting the years and more interested in giving thanks for what remains.


The memories remain.


The love remains.


And, perhaps most of all, grace remains.


If you are carrying the memory of someone you have loved and lost, I invite you to remember one ordinary moment shared. Not necessarily the great occasions or milestones. Remember something small, the sound of a laugh, a familiar saying, a hand in yours.


Sometimes the smallest memories tell the greatest love stories.


Thank you for spending moments with me. May we recognize the love that surrounds us while we still have the privilege of holding one another’s hands.

August has always been a month filled with memories for me. Some are joyful. Others carry sorrow. And some, after many years, have become a mixture of both.


This month marks twenty-three years since my husband Tony died.


Twenty-three years is a long time, long enough for life to change in ways I could never have imagined. Long enough to grow older, experience other losses, discover new purposes, and become a different woman in many ways.


Yet love has a remarkable memory.


I can still remember walking beside Tony with my hand securely in his. I remember the way he looked at me as though, no matter who else was in the room, I was the woman he saw.


I remember his preaching. Tony was what I have often called a preacher’s preacher. He loved God, he loved the Word, and he loved people with his whole heart.


We were both ordained ministers, and some of my most precious memories are not of pulpits or church services but of our Wednesday morning devotions at home. We each brought our own thoughts and reflections. We read Scripture, talked about our faith, and prayed together.


At the time, Wednesday morning was simply Wednesday morning.


I did not know I was making a memory.


Perhaps that is one of the gifts that comes with growing older: we begin to understand the holiness of ordinary things.


At hand, reaching for yours.


A conversation over breakfast.


A familiar voice in another room.


Someone knows how you take your coffee.


A prayer shared before beginning the day.


We rarely recognize these moments as treasures while we are living them. We are busy living. Then one day, years later, we realize that what seemed ordinary was extraordinary after all.


Love Changes, But It Does Not Disappear


Grief has been one of my greatest teachers.


It has taught me that death changes a relationship; it does not erase it. I no longer hold Tony’s hand as we walk down the street. I cannot hear him preach or sit across from him during our Wednesday morning devotion.


But I continue to carry what his love gave me.


His love taught me something about being cherished.


His faith strengthened mine.


The life we shared became part of the woman I am today.


And perhaps this is what love leaves behind.


Not simply photographs or anniversaries or stories we tell, important as those are. Love leaves something within us. It shapes how we see the world. It influences how we care for others. Sometimes the love we once received becomes the love we are able to give away.


I have spent years walking alongside grieving people. I know something about sitting with broken hearts. My own losses have not given me all the answers. If anything, they have taught me that answers are often not what grieving people need.


Sometimes they need presence.


Sometimes they need someone willing to sit in the silence.


Sometimes they simply need a hand.


I know what it means to have had a hand that made me feel safe.


And Then There Is Grace


My faith has also taught me that grace does not always arrive by removing what hurts.


Sometimes grace is what allows us to carry what hurts without being destroyed by it.


Grace has allowed me to remember Tony with gratitude instead of only sorrow.


Grace has allowed the memory of his hand in mine to bring a smile.


Grace has taught me that continuing to live fully is not a betrayal of those who have died. It is one way of honoring the love they gave us.


Twenty-three years later, I am not the woman who stood at the beginning of that loss.


Life has continued.


So has love.


And so has God.


As I move through another August, I find myself less interested in counting the years and more interested in giving thanks for what remains.


The memories remain.


The love remains.


And, perhaps most of all, grace remains.


If you are carrying the memory of someone you have loved and lost, I invite you to remember one ordinary moment shared. Not necessarily the great occasions or milestones. Remember something small, the sound of a laugh, a familiar saying, a hand in yours.


Sometimes the smallest memories tell the greatest love stories.


Thank you for spending moments with me. May we recognize the love that surrounds us while we still have the privilege of holding one another’s hands.