Because love doesn’t die

Grief is such a strange companion. At first, it seems all consuming. Everything is colored by grief. In time, it mellows. As it weaves itself into the fabric of your days, it seems to fade into the background. Always there. Always ready. And sometimes, it is the little things that catch you off guard. Little, often unimportant always unexpected.

child loss

I recently moved my blog. Some files got lost in the move; a lot of links to files were broken. I’ve slowly been going through them, a post at a time, to clean house. Most of them were not particularly important. For the most part, I’ve just been deleting the evidence. Delete the link, delete the broken image link icon, delete the reference to what used to be there.

Then I come across an old recipe to watermelon rind jelly. This isn’t a recipe blog so I don’t count recipes among my most important posts. But some of them are unique and I get a steady stream of traffic to all of them.

Steady being one or two a day. Because let’s be real. I’m not the Pioneer Woman.

It’s a broken image link. I actually remember this picture. It’s a little boy eating watermelon. The picture is still in my media files. I saw it while I was looking for something else. But is it important, stuck here at the end? Does it add anything to the post? Not really. I delete it. Then I read the rambling paragraph after it. It doesn’t make sense at first.

It takes a moment, but I realize it is referencing the image that used to be there. It also adds nothing. I start to delete it.

It’s funny how much more ruthless I am editing posts that are several years old. Maybe if I left all my posts in draft for five or six years, I could get them down to the 500 words or so all the Big Blogs say you need to be successful.

Image gone. Pointless rambling gone . . . except . . . 18 month old. 18 month old? How old is this post? I scroll back to the top to look at the date and realize the 18 month old I just deleted from an old post about watermelon rind jelly had to be Mattias.

I couldn’t breathe.

A small, unimportant bit of rambling at the end of a post. But it was my little Mattias covered in watermelon seeds. A small little memory I had forgotten. Until I deleted it.

I opened the post up in a new tab. The original text and broken link were still there. It wasn’t gone forever, but I was seized by some inexplicable panic that I was somehow going to now delete it forever anyway. Because I almost did. So I copied the text, saved it to my computer, saved it to the post, closed the post and reopened the post in the editor and on the blog to make sure it was still there.

I held it together just long enough to make sure it wasn’t really gone.

And then I fell apart. Because it is the little, unexpected things that can take me back to that day. To holding him. To pacing outside the emergency room. To watching the doctors walk down the hall and knowing before they said anything at all. To losing him all over again.

Because in time, grief loosens its grip and allows itself to fade into the background. But it never completely goes away. I’m not even sure it loses its strength . . . because love never leaves nor weakens. It just waits. For heaven, if necessary.

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14 Comments on "Because love doesn’t die"

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Jan Johnson

So true and so poignantly said – grief never weakens or completely goes away – it just waits. The first post of yours I read was about Tiggy leaving this earth, and I still think of it all sometimes.


Thank you so much. The waiting is hard, though.

Hadassah Geraci

My first post of yours I read too. It still grips my heart so very much for you… I just don’t understand these things. I’m so sorry for your pain. I wish you could have your dear son back. It’s hard to wait for the end of our lives to see those who are so dear to us who have gone before.

Alana Mautone (@RamblinGarden)

Love never dies. Sorrow returns at the most unexpected times. We find memories in unlikely places. Grief changes its form as the years pass, but it is always with us in some ways, coloring our actions, and sometimes causing us to travel in unexpected directions.


Yes, very true and well said.


There are still no words…It is so strange how events can turn our whole lives into a “before” and “after.” Continued love and peace to you.


Sigh. Yes. And thank you so much.

Michelle B

I remember you sending me this blurry picture for the quilt and telling me you couldn’t decide what photos to use because even the blurry ones had Tiggy in them. I remember that conversation and crying because of your grief, one that I haven’t had to endure in this life. I loved that you loved him so very much. I felt it. I dreamed of him and your family because of how detailed your stories were. I love you and your family so much. Such a special place in my heart! Love your article!💕❤️💕❤️


Thank you so much, Michelle. That quilt is still so very meaningful to our family. There aren’t words to express it.


Oh, I just want to reach across cyber space and hug and cry with you.


I definitely accept cyber hugs. Thank you so much.


Love is a person. His name is Jesus Christ. It is said, “at the Cross of Christ God could not have loved you more, and He could not have loved you less.” Surely, yes for certain, our God, He, is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Through Him love never dies. Blessings…

Marilyn R

I just wanted to comment and let you know, today your post about the accident that took your precious boy was in my Facebook memories. At the time, I had a toddler and a baby. I wanted to let you know that day and your message hit home. We’ve always made sure to anchor anything that could tip, even though my girls aren’t climbers, your post was a sad reminder that it only takes a moment. Love and well wishes to your family. ❤❤❤

Roscommon Acres

Thank you, Marily.