Letting Go

For forty-six years, I shared my life with an extraordinary woman—my partner, my confidante, my joy, the mother of our two incredible children, and grandmother to six cherished grandchildren. Despite years of battling chronic lung issues, it was cancer that ultimately claimed Bonita’s life.

Her loss shattered me. The pain was a tidal wave, drowning my heart and mind. To lose someone so intertwined with your soul after decades together is a grief beyond words. I was undone—unable to sleep, weeping endlessly, aching in ways I never knew possible.

In the weeks that followed, all I could feel was her absence, a hollow longing that somehow kept her close. That sorrow, though agonizing, was a strange comfort—the last thread tying me to her.

But clinging to that pain was unsustainable. I felt her slipping further away, like a car drifting down the street, its taillights fading. I wanted to hold onto every feeling, even the hurt, fearing that letting go meant losing her. Yet, the sorrow seemed to murmur, “I’m not meant to stay. You must let me fade. Your love for her remains, but its shape must change.”

Like a car driving away from your home, grief moves on its own terms. I couldn’t chase it or force it to stay without wounding myself further. Letting go isn’t a choice you make—it arrives, uninvited, like a guest at your door, asking you to release what you’ve held so tightly.

As a Christian, I find peace knowing she’s with Christ in Heaven, her true home. She doesn’t long for earth; she’s wrapped in eternal joy. Her love for me endures, but it’s different now—an expectant love, like parents awaiting a child’s birth, eager for the day we reunite.

This realization changed me. I saw that my unending grief didn’t honor her; it dimmed the light of our memories. Holding onto pain warped my perspective—her favorite chair, once a symbol of her warmth, became a stark reminder of loss. Sweet memories turned bitter.

But when I began to release her to God, gratitude took root. I started to see her as she is now—radiant, whole, at peace. This shift brought back joyful memories, not as sources of pain but as gifts to cherish. I still miss her daily. Sometimes I still cry, not from despair but from gratitude for the decades we shared—her laughter, her kindness, her love.

In time, God blessed me with a new wife, a woman who possesses the same beautiful qualities of the heart. This isn’t a continuation of the past; it’s a new story, shaped by a healed perspective. Letting go didn’t erase our love—it freed me to carry it differently.

If you’re grieving, don’t fear letting go. Your love for them, and theirs for you, endures forever. Trust the Resurrected Jesus to guide you toward a perspective that heals, one that transforms pain into thankfulness and opens the door to a hopeful future..