Yesterday, my dear pastor and his wife taught together.
They shared, side by side, with the ease and wisdom of partners who have both enjoyed and weathered decades of fruitful ministry.
They took the stage, smiling at each other, and I found myself instantly transported. In that fraction of a moment, indelible memories rushed in, reminding me of all the times Jimmy and I had done the same. We never tired of sharing the stage, or our hearts.
Jimmy, an exceedingly gifted communicator, masterfully dispensed God’s Word. I gazed adoringly, never ceasing to marvel at the privilege that was mine to stand beside him.
We shared, we taught, we exhorted, we encouraged, yet still somehow managed to flirt our way through each talk. Our chemistry was undeniable, and we had a crush on each other that never waned.
It wasn’t just what we did together, by the way. It was how deeply entwined our lives had become. Marriage and ministry were never separate lanes for us. Loving each other and serving together were seamless, as though one naturally gave rise to the other.
Ours was a calling that shaped not only what we did, but who we were.
I loved being a pastor’s wife.
I miss being a pastor’s wife.
I loved being Jimmy’s wife.
I miss being Jimmy’s wife.
I loved teaching with him.
I miss teaching with him.
𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑠, today’s struggle.
For thirty-one years, I was given the sacred gift of ministering beside the only boy I ever loved. We shared the weight of calling, the joy and tears behind the scenes, and the delight of coming home to one another after pouring ourselves out.
We carried the same stories, prayed the same prayers, and trusted the same God, sometimes with unwavering confidence, sometimes with a defiant faith that can only be mustered up in times of crisis.
And then…that life ended, along with my Jimmy’s.
What followed was not just grief, but a vast, gaping absence, an uncharted loneliness that arrived, fraught with questions I wasn’t ready to answer and did not yet have language for:
Who am I now that the life I knew so completely is gone?
How do I continue in a calling that was always plural, but now singular?
How do I walk forward alone when every step had always been taken together?
Joy has been mine, but it is tentative.
Fragile.
Easily undone.
Today it crumbled again.
Still, this much remains true:
What we lived was real.
What we had was a gift, a dream come true, a bona fide fairytale.
What we shared mattered. (Or at least I hope it did.)
Those years were not a prelude or a rehearsal.
They were a full, faithful life, poured out together.
Loss does not erase the gift that was ours.
Grief does not negate the gratitude.
And love, 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, remains, leaving a legacy that time cannot diminish.
If today proved anything, it is that I am still learning how to live the life that came after the one I loved.
Still learning how to stand alone while honoring the beautiful life we shared.
Still discovering that moving forward is not the same as moving on.
At the end of the service today, when it was time to celebrate and give thanks for God’s goodness over the past year, I slipped out instead.
I 𝑎𝑚 grateful.
I am deeply grateful and ever mindful of God’s goodness and provision in my life.
Today just simply and unexpectedly laid bare the contrast between what was and what is.
It left me fragile and acutely aware that even the smallest act of kindness would have left me undone. So I sought solace alone in my car with the One Jimmy and I loved our whole lives. He dealt tenderly with my heart, excavating joy from the ruins, and it was sweet.
Today was hard, yes.
But I would not trade our years for anything. I’d have done it a million times over if it meant I got to be Jimmy’s girl.
If it’s true that grief is the price we pay for love (and I believe it is) then a love like ours was certainly worth the ache.
“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
~𝐊𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐥 𝐆𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧