One Year Later and Still Standing On the Rock

Tomorrow morning marks one year since Bruce stepped off a train and our world cracked open.

It was an ordinary morning—until it wasn’t. One step, one moment, and suddenly life divided itself into before and after. There was no warning, no time to brace ourselves. Just the shattering realization that everything we assumed was solid could change in an instant.

As this anniversary approaches, I find myself a kaleidoscope of emotions. Gratitude and grief collide. Fear lingers beside relief. There is thankfulness that Bruce is still here, and there is mourning for the parts of life that will never return to what they were. Both are true. Both exist at the same time.

Faith does not erase this tension. It doesn’t numb the ache or tidy it into something easily explained. Instead, faith gives me a place to stand inside it.

“The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.”

—Psalm 18:2

When everything else shifted, God did not. When the ground beneath our feet felt unstable, He remained solid. I didn’t always feel brave. I didn’t always feel hopeful. But I clung to the truth that my footing was never meant to be in outcomes, diagnoses, or plans—it was always meant to be in Him.

This past year has taught me that strength is often quieter than we imagine. It looks less like courage and more like endurance. Less like confidence and more like showing up again, even when you are exhausted. There were days when strength felt completely out of reach—when prayer sounded more like silence and faith felt thinner than I was comfortable admitting.

And yet, God never asked me to manufacture strength.

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

—Isaiah 41:10

I didn’t hold everything together this year—God did. He upheld us in hospital rooms and waiting areas, in long nights and fragile mornings, in the slow and often unseen work of healing. His presence didn’t remove the fear, but it met us inside it. His strength didn’t always feel dramatic, but it was faithful.

One year later, I am still learning how to live in this altered landscape. I am learning that trusting God doesn’t mean I stop grieving. It means I grieve with my hands open instead of clenched. It means I return, again and again, to the Rock when the memories rush in and the “what ifs” grow loud.

Tomorrow will come, heavy with remembrance. And when it does, I will not pretend it is easy. I will simply remember where my refuge is.

Not in what was. Not in what might have been. But in the God who has not let go—then or now.