The Valley of the Shadow…Where Every Day Is Memorial Day

Those of us who have lost a loved one often feel as if we reside in the valley of the shadow of death. Every day is Memorial Day because not a day goes by when we aren’t remembering the one we lost. For me, the official Memorial Day felt different this year. In past years, I climbed Pikes Peak with my late husband’s unit, I founded a nonprofit that hosted a corporately sponsored Memorial Run, and I have ruck-marched from Maryland to his Arlington National Cemetery gravesite with his battle buddies. For the last few years, I’ve — at minimum — led my family in an annual 5K, even if only around the local park. I’ve attended ceremonies, published articles about resilience and faith, preached hope in the aftermath of tragedy, and shared our story of loss with an international audience. Yet, at the risk of sounding disrespectful to avoid being disingenuous, I felt indifferent this year. 

This year, I got as far as putting on the now-fading t-shirt that bears my late husband’s name, his KIA details, and the words “Finish Strong.” It’s been 12 years since he died. There isn’t a day I haven’t thought of him. Monuments to his life and our love are permanently erected in my heart. Every day is Memorial Day. But on the day that the rest of the country (hopefully) stopped to remember the fallen, I just didn’t have it in me. I sat on the floor of my closet next to the running shoes I just couldn’t muster the strength to put on. There was no sobbing or even specific, painful reminiscence. I just felt numb and stared blankly into the void…indifferent. I’m not entirely sure how long I sat there. But, because I have an incredible support network, at some point a paper plate of biscuits was placed before me on the floor without question or conversation other than encouragement to eat. I am grateful for the day officially designated by our country to remember loved ones lost, like mine. For at least one day, others pick up the mantle of remembrance, allowing me to chase away the guilt of times I can do nothing but leave it on the floor.

The Years That Hit Differently 

Though my indifference eventually faded, Memorial Day was still different this year. I truly had intended to do our annual 5K, but when I didn’t get it organized in time, all but one other family member did their own thing. Eventually, I took an evening walk with my 17-year-old son, and we agreed that we have done hard things every day since his dad died. There was no need to run a 5K in 100-degree heat to feel like we had honored him. Instead, we did one lap around the neighborhood, then sat on the kitchen floor together eating popcorn and picking the mandarin oranges out of an old fruit salad while watching a K-drama. During those floor-sitting times, we are still honoring him. At least that’s what I’ve come to tell myself. It is what I hope any fellow floor-sitters give themselves permission to believe. Because this is life in the valley of the shadow. I thank God it is a shadow, which by nature changes with the position of the light. Grief doesn’t have to doom us to complete darkness forever, but it does cast a long shadow. And just like a real shadow, it’s impossible to truly vanquish it. Sometimes I walk or even run through the valley of the shadow of death, fearing no evil. Sometimes, I just sit on the floor wearing the memorial t-shirt — proof and reminder of past strength. 

Survivors bravely go from strength to strength, but we should extend grace to ourselves when there are lulls and valleys in between. Whether it is Memorial Day, an anniversary, a birthday, or any other significant time of remembrance, survivors have the right to “tap out.” It is OK to miss a tradition or walk away from one that no longer works for us. Especially as the holiday season approaches, it is important to recognize that the grief process is fluid and life may look and feel completely different this year. The years that hit differently are not wrong. Families who have suffered loss remember and honor their loved ones every day. No absence of tradition will ever change that. We honor our loved ones best by simply carrying on in their absence.

Heather Gray Blalock is the surviving spouse of Maj Walter David Gray, U.S. Air Force and a TAPS Peer Mentor.

Photo: Unsplash.com and TAPS Archives