I wrote this on September 11th, 2021 - 3 years from when Chase died. I never did publish it, and I don’t remember why. So today, as we’re about to embark on a new year, I thought I’d share it.

It’s been three years now. Time keeps charging relentlessly forward.

I thought that I would have written more by this point, but what I’ve come to discover is that grief is sacred.

When a gaping black hole opens up where you thought life would reside, it’s impossible to ignore. And, at first, other’s can see it too. And you sort of hope they do. In early loss and grief I would wish we had some outward societal sign of grief and mourning, like wearing a black band around our arm. So strangers would know, and be gentle. And kind.

But others did know. They knew of my loss, our loss. They could see the black hole – at least the surface of it.

But I’ve had to voyage into it. Into the dark, miry pit.
And the further I’ve trekked, the more clear it’s become that only a few are really meant to come along on this journey with me.

There’s only a few that have entered into the depths with me.
That continue to witness the steps I must take.
That have held a candle so I can see in the dark.
Or plant flowers, so I can remember beauty.
Or sing a melody that my heart, my soul, still recognizes as Truth.

We all have our own paths to tread. And we all have people along the way.
But we can’t all be candle bearers, or flower planters, or song singers.
We can’t all voyage into the depths.
But maybe some will be divot-fillers, or hand-holders, or hope-whisperers.