When I lost my dad and then my mom, I felt a sense of grief so deep that even now—31 and 21 years later, the hurt still grabs at my throat and my heart. My children saw me mourn, and I’m sure it frightened them to witness their strong mom suddenly weakened by loss.
When my father passed away, we traveled to Arlington National Cemetery, where he received a full military burial. As an Army Colonel, he was honored with a caparisoned (riderless) horse following the caisson. The horse carried boots placed backwards in the stirrups to symbolize that the deceased will never ride again. There was a twenty-one gun salute, a bugle call, and the presentation of the American flag to my mother.
My son was still a toddler, so he did not attend, but my daughter was eight years old and witnessed the dignity, reverence, and finality of the ceremony.
Ten years later, when my mother died, she too was brought to Arlington to be laid to rest with our father. She received dependent honors including a casket team and a military chaplain. Again, the ceremony was respectful, solemn, and deeply meaningful. This time, both of my children were old enough to attend and absorb the reverence of saying goodbye.
Dealing with the grief that came with my parents’ deaths was incredibly difficult for me—they were a profound and steady presence in my life. My children understood the seriousness of my parents’ illnesses, so their deaths were not unexpected. But even with preparation, grief has a way of arriving with both weight and silence.
Reading early drafts of Caitlin’s Star (at that point it was just a Word document) helped my children process their feelings and understand that love does not end. Together, we imagined their grandparents’ Heavenly Jobs. My dad, a proud Army Colonel and later a teacher, was given the job of loudly announcing the names of the people entering Heaven and leading them on tours. My mother, a beautiful, gentle soul who loved entertaining and making people feel welcome, became the head of Heaven’s Welcoming Committee. These small acts of imagination helped us feel connected and comforted at a time when we needed it most.
The Healing Power of Remembering
When someone we love dies, the world changes in an instant. We’re left holding memories in one hand and emptiness in the other, trying to figure out how to move forward while a part of our heart remains behind.
For children — and for adults — grief can feel confusing and overwhelming. We search for ways to stay connected, and often the simplest gestures carry the most comfort: saying a name out loud, sharing a favorite memory, or holding onto an object that reminds us of them. (my mother’s robe hangs in the closet alongside my dad’s red golf shirt).
That’s why remembering matters. It gives us a way to keep love alive.
In my book Caitlin’s Star, I introduce the idea of Heavenly Jobs — small, imaginative roles our loved ones might take on in heaven. Children respond powerfully to this idea, and many adults tell me it comforts them as well.
Remembering doesn’t erase grief but it transforms it. It softens pain with meaning. It reminds us that love never disappears; it simply changes form.
Whether through journaling, speaking names aloud, writing memories on a card, or sharing stories around a table, we honor the people who shaped us. We carry them forward. We continue their light.
So today, take a moment to think of someone you love who is no longer here. Say their name. Picture their Heavenly Job. Let that memory be a soft landing place for your heart.
Love endures — always.
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