The sunlight hit the floorboards of my bedroom, a sharp, golden rectangle that felt more like an invitation than an intrusion. It is 2026, and the world has kept spinning through the gears of time, but grief—my grief—has no calendar. It doesn’t recognize the passage of eight years. It doesn’t know that it has been since 2018 since Joseph Parence, my husband, left this world.
My grief has been a heavy, woolen blanket I’ve worn since the day he passed. It muffled the sounds of the world and made the simple act of existing feel like wading through deep water.
But today, something shifted.
I looked at the unmade bed, that familiar landscape of shadows and stagnant rest. Slowly, I pushed the covers back. I put one foot on the floor, then the other. I stood up. I didn’t just wake up; I arose.
I began to smooth the sheets. I fluffed the pillows, placing them exactly where they belonged. I cleaned, organizing the small things that had been left in disarray for too long. With every movement, a little bit of the person I used to be—the woman Joseph loved—seemed to flicker back into existence.
"I made it out of the bed," I whispered into the quiet room.
It sounds so small to anyone else. To the world, making a bed is a chore. To me, today, it was a victory. It was a trophy I had won in a quiet, lonely stadium. I felt a swell of gratitude so profound it brought me to my knees.
God, Jesus, I made it out of the bed.
I opened my Bible. The ink on the pages stayed the same, but the power behind the words felt new. I thanked Him for the breath in my lungs and the stillness of this Sunday morning.
I walked to the window and looked out. I thought of Joseph. I always think of Joseph. I miss you so much, I said silently, a message sent across the great divide. Thank you for being so good to me. Thank you for being the father you were to our kids.
There is no expiration date on the love I hold for him, just as there is no expiration on the sorrow. But today, the sorrow didn't win. Today, the scale tipped just a fraction toward the light.
I am getting myself back, piece by piece, day by day. It is a fight—the good fight—and I am showing up for it. I am leaning into the grace of God, keeping Him at the center, and finding that there is more to my story than just the ending of his.
I smoothed the bedspread one last time, satisfied. Today is a good day. And for the first time in a long time, I am ready to see where it leads.
