You can be doing “okay” for weeks—steady, functional, even hopeful—and then a date shows up, and your body remembers before your mind can explain it.
Anniversaries have a way of reopening a door you didn’t plan to walk through. Not because you’re failing. Not because you’re going backward. But because grief isn’t linear—it’s relational. Love keeps time.
A Personal Note
On a personal note, 2025 was a hard year for my family. We lost two family members, and it feels like grief “bookended” the months—one loss in February, and another in December.
Some weeks don’t just feel busy; they feel heavy. The world keeps moving—emails, errands, responsibilities—while you’re carrying names, memories, and dates you’ll never forget.
So if you are coming up on an anniversary, you’re not alone.
These Dates Hit So Hard
1) Your body stores the story.
Even when you’ve processed a lot, certain seasons, songs, weather, and routines can stir grief in your body—fatigue, tightness, tears that surprise you.
2) The date highlights the absence.
Anniversaries don’t only remind you of what happened—they remind you of what should have been: another meal, another photo, another ordinary day together.
3) Love keeps marking the calendar.
Remembering isn’t a problem to fix. It’s proof that love was real.
A Quiet Word for This Week
“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.”
Psalm 34:18 (NLT)
God doesn’t stand at a distance from anniversary grief. He draws near.
A Simple Way to Hold the Day
If you have an anniversary coming, try one small, gentle practice:
Name. Thank. Entrust.
Name: “Today I remember…”
Thank: “One gift they gave me was…”
Entrust: “God, I place what I can’t hold into Your hands.”
I remember my loved ones loving roses, hummingbirds, the beach, spending time with family, being outdoors, reading, and sports.
Maybe you have details like that—small things that still feel sacred.
Reflection Question (Week 2)
What is one memory—one “small sacred detail”—you want to honor this week?
A Short Blessing
May you feel no shame for the day your heart remembers.
May God meet you in the heaviness with steady comfort.
And may you be held—one breath, one step, one prayer at a time.
With you in the quiet, — The Quiet Chaplain

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