Without any doubt, it was the most difficult hour of my life. And the ruminating (both necessary ruminating and less-functional ruminating) turned it into the most difficult days and weeks of my life.
Penny, the dressed cat image gives this piece a startling honesty: the outward costume of holding yourself together while everything inside has been made strange, exposed, and unbearably tasked. The hand grenade language captures the impossible cruelty of parenting in anticipatory grief, when love has to choose words that will wound children while still trying to make them feel held. Even the Disneyland memory carries that ache, not as escape, but as the longing to freeze the last version of family life before the diagnosis changed the air around it. I’m grateful for the courage it took to write the part of grief that often feels too dark to admit, especially the desperate wish to spare everyone from knowing what was coming.
Yes. Rev. Kev, I have so many words of gratitude for you, but I cannot form them right now.
Have you ever been too emotionally tasked (emotionally taxed) even to practice connection and gratitude? That has been the underlying theme of the last three years of my life.
Penny, I believe you. And please let the unfinished gratitude rest without guilt; when a person has been emotionally tasked for years, the absence of formed words can itself be evidence of how much has had to be carried. Connection does not always look like eloquence or responsiveness. Sometimes it looks like telling the truth from the place where language has run out, and I receive that with care. I’m grateful you trusted this space with a sentence that still found its way through.
One of the things I continue to appreciate about your writing is that you trust the ordinary moments. A garage. A few cat portraits. A drive home. In your hands, they become the places where life quietly divides into *before* and *after*. You never force the emotion; you let it emerge from the scene itself.
As I read this, I found myself thinking about the moments in my own life when I became the one carrying news I wished I didn't have to carry. There is something incredibly lonely about holding a truth that you know will forever change someone else's world the moment you speak it aloud. It feels as though time pauses, and for one impossible moment you wish you could remain in the silence just a little longer.
Your essay reminded me that love often asks us to become the bearer of realities we would never choose. Not because we are fearless, but because there is simply no other faithful way forward.
Thank you for writing with such honesty and restraint. I think that's why your work lingers. You trust the reader enough to discover the weight alongside you.
"There is something incredibly lonely about holding a truth that you know will forever change someone else's world the moment you speak it aloud."
"Love often asks us to become the bearer of realities we would never choose. Not because we are fearless, but because there is simply no other faithful way forward."
~ Kevin David Kridner
I feel very witnessed by the way you interact with my musings, KDK. Deeply grateful.
Penny, that means a great deal to me. Your writing invites that kind of attention because you bring us so honestly into the moments you have lived. I’m grateful my words helped you feel witnessed. Thank you for trusting us with your story.
With all my family went through with my husband’s devastating cancer diagnosis, I was grateful for adult children. His 85 days from diagnosis to death would have been devastating for small children. I can’t imagine how hard the truth must have been for them. You weave such profoundly beautiful stories. What a gift even with the bleakest of news.
I am so sorry. I imagine you can relate to some of the mixed emotions that buffet you in a time like that. Deep deep terror, hopelessness, hunger for more time, bewilderment, and even the resignation to a type of peace that some may land, knowing that everything is out of your hands.
Thank you for following my journey and for your encouraging words.
I can’t even imagine how difficult that must have been. 💔
Emmie, thank you.
Without any doubt, it was the most difficult hour of my life. And the ruminating (both necessary ruminating and less-functional ruminating) turned it into the most difficult days and weeks of my life.
Penny, the dressed cat image gives this piece a startling honesty: the outward costume of holding yourself together while everything inside has been made strange, exposed, and unbearably tasked. The hand grenade language captures the impossible cruelty of parenting in anticipatory grief, when love has to choose words that will wound children while still trying to make them feel held. Even the Disneyland memory carries that ache, not as escape, but as the longing to freeze the last version of family life before the diagnosis changed the air around it. I’m grateful for the courage it took to write the part of grief that often feels too dark to admit, especially the desperate wish to spare everyone from knowing what was coming.
Unbearably tasked.
Yes. Rev. Kev, I have so many words of gratitude for you, but I cannot form them right now.
Have you ever been too emotionally tasked (emotionally taxed) even to practice connection and gratitude? That has been the underlying theme of the last three years of my life.
Penny, I believe you. And please let the unfinished gratitude rest without guilt; when a person has been emotionally tasked for years, the absence of formed words can itself be evidence of how much has had to be carried. Connection does not always look like eloquence or responsiveness. Sometimes it looks like telling the truth from the place where language has run out, and I receive that with care. I’m grateful you trusted this space with a sentence that still found its way through.
Penny,
One of the things I continue to appreciate about your writing is that you trust the ordinary moments. A garage. A few cat portraits. A drive home. In your hands, they become the places where life quietly divides into *before* and *after*. You never force the emotion; you let it emerge from the scene itself.
As I read this, I found myself thinking about the moments in my own life when I became the one carrying news I wished I didn't have to carry. There is something incredibly lonely about holding a truth that you know will forever change someone else's world the moment you speak it aloud. It feels as though time pauses, and for one impossible moment you wish you could remain in the silence just a little longer.
Your essay reminded me that love often asks us to become the bearer of realities we would never choose. Not because we are fearless, but because there is simply no other faithful way forward.
Thank you for writing with such honesty and restraint. I think that's why your work lingers. You trust the reader enough to discover the weight alongside you.
"There is something incredibly lonely about holding a truth that you know will forever change someone else's world the moment you speak it aloud."
"Love often asks us to become the bearer of realities we would never choose. Not because we are fearless, but because there is simply no other faithful way forward."
~ Kevin David Kridner
I feel very witnessed by the way you interact with my musings, KDK. Deeply grateful.
Penny, that means a great deal to me. Your writing invites that kind of attention because you bring us so honestly into the moments you have lived. I’m grateful my words helped you feel witnessed. Thank you for trusting us with your story.
There are no words that properly meet this kind of writing, only a quiet recognition of how much is being carried within it. X
Claire, thank you for that quiet recognition. The experience feels almost unsurvivable. Fortunately, it was not. Your care means a lot.
I think some of the heaviest moments in life happen before a single word is spoken.
The heart has already begun carrying what the voice isn't ready to say.
Thank you. 🫶
Devastation.
utter . . .
With all my family went through with my husband’s devastating cancer diagnosis, I was grateful for adult children. His 85 days from diagnosis to death would have been devastating for small children. I can’t imagine how hard the truth must have been for them. You weave such profoundly beautiful stories. What a gift even with the bleakest of news.
Candy, 85 days.
Oh.
I am so sorry. I imagine you can relate to some of the mixed emotions that buffet you in a time like that. Deep deep terror, hopelessness, hunger for more time, bewilderment, and even the resignation to a type of peace that some may land, knowing that everything is out of your hands.
Thank you for following my journey and for your encouraging words.
I understand and time definitely does not heal all wounds. Healing is for life. Keep writing about it. It helps you and so many others.