Yesterday, I decided to use Joshua’s messenger bag, the one he carried to work every day when he was with the law firm. I needed something to carry my own laptop in for a meeting, so I grabbed it. Inside was one of his notebooks, and I thought I’d just use it to take notes.
When I got to the meeting and opened it up, I saw his handwriting; page after page of plans. Not just day-to-day things, but long-term goals about saving money, building a home, and all the dreams he had for the future.
I ran my fingers over those pages, over that bag that his hands had touched so many times, and I just sat there, in a room full of people, trying to hold it together. I couldn’t bring myself to write in that notebook. Even the blank pages felt sacred.
My heart ached in that moment, but there was also this quiet, overwhelming sense that he was right there with me. I could almost hear him, the way he’d say, “Mom, this is just crazy,” and then start helping me figure things out. He was so smart. So quick. So good at seeing the big picture and connecting the dots. Honestly, he was better at it than me. And I know, deep down, he’d be proud of what I’m doing right now…that he’d be cheering me on every step of the way.
It hasn’t even been a year yet. I’m still learning how to navigate this new life, this version of living where he’s not physically here, but somehow still everywhere. I’ve realized I haven’t cried much these past few weeks. Maybe because I’ve been so focused, so determined. I’ve had so many other strong emotions. It’s not anger I’ve been feeling. It’s urgency. A drive to do something meaningful, to make a difference, to make sure others are informed and supported.
But this morning, the tears came. Quietly, steadily. I realized how much I miss him; how much I always miss him. Every single day, I’ve wanted to call him, to tell him what’s happening, to share updates, to hear his voice, his laugh, his thoughts. And I can’t.
Still, in some way, I feel him here. I can almost hear what he would say. I can sense the pride he’d feel. And maybe that’s what’s kept me grounded these past few weeks…feeling his strength in my own.
Yesterday, holding that messenger bag and seeing his words, I was reminded that grief doesn’t just live in the tears. Sometimes, it lives in the silence. In the things you touch, the spaces you fill, and the love that still lingers in every part of you.
Maybe that’s what this is, carrying him with me, not just in memory, but in motion. In the work. In the purpose. In the light he left behind.
