Grief and Grace – The Day That Changed Everything

“Through the ache of loss, love’s light still shines.”

It was February 22, 1999—a Monday morning. At that time, I was a small business owner, running an office out of my home with two friends who worked alongside me. The day began like so many others: busy, full of tasks, contracts spread across my desk, and the ordinary rhythm of family life in the background.

My husband, Russell, was laid off from his seasonal work then, and our youngest daughter, Ariel, had afternoon kindergarten. That morning, he mentioned needing to go to the store for dog food. I asked him to take Ariel with him so I could focus on work. She was already in the truck, ready to go.

He was a little annoyed—but he took her.

Anyone who has parented a little one knows that “running to the store” is never quick with children in tow. Normally, whenever my family left the house, I would kiss them goodbye. It was a ritual I held sacred, one of those small acts that feels like second nature. But on this morning, for reasons I’ll never understand, I didn’t kiss either of them.

That choice still echoes through me.

My friend Heather arrived at the office, and we got busy. A short while later, my friend Brandi came in. She looked at me strangely and asked where my husband and daughter were. I told her they had gone out to get dog food. She hesitated and then said she had passed an accident that looked like my vehicle.

This was 1999—before cell phones were in every pocket—so there was no quick way to call and check. My heart dropped, but I clung to hope. I told my friends I would drive toward the accident scene. If my husband and daughter had gone to the Coventry store, they could call me on the car phone I had built in.

I remember the drive vividly—my eyes scanning every car that passed, waiting for the phone to ring, willing them to appear on the road. But neither happened.

When I arrived at the scene, I saw my vehicle. My knees weakened, my breath caught, but still, my mind clung to the belief that they must be at a hospital. I found the first officer I could and asked where my husband and daughter were. He confirmed the car was mine, then led me to a man in a long black coat.

“This is the owner of the vehicle,” the officer said.

I looked at the man and asked, “Where are my husband and daughter?”

He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes and said, “I’m sorry.”

Those two words shattered my world. I couldn’t comprehend them. My mind couldn’t make sense of it. Surely, he meant something else. Surely, he was about to tell me which hospital they had been taken to. But no matter how I tried to reshape his words into something survivable, the truth stood immovable: they were gone.

That was the day my life split in two: the before and the after.

Grief entered my bones that day, and it has walked with me ever since. But so has grace. Grace in the way love still lingers. Grace in the memories that keep them alive in me. Grace in the strength I didn’t know I had to keep going.

Grief and grace are companions on this journey. One aches. One carries. And together, they shape the woman I am today.

A Whisper for You

If you are reading this and carrying your own grief, I want you to know you are not alone. Grief has no timeline, no rules, no “right way” to move through it. It can feel heavy, wild, and endless at times—but even within that weight, small moments of grace will appear.

Grace may be a memory that makes you smile through tears.

Grace may be a friend who shows up when you least expect it.

Grace may simply be the breath you take that gets you through the next moment.

Hold on to those fragments of grace. They do not erase the grief, but they do soften its edges, even if only for a heartbeat.

If you take anything from my story, let it be this:

Love does not end.

And neither does the thread that connects us to those we have lost.

✨ Signed, with love,

Solena Wrenwild