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Week 132: The Space Between: Father’s Day, Grief, and Gentle Remembering

The Space Between: Father’s Day, Grief, and Gentle Remembering

Father’s Day arrived gently this year. Not without its ache — especially for my husband, who carried the quiet weight of missing our daughter — but with a kind of stillness. A day we approached not with fanfare, but with intention.

We’ve learned something in the years since Lily passed: Father’s Day after child loss asks for a different kind of honoring. One rooted in peace, not pressure. In presence, not performance.


Simple Gestures That Carry Meaning

The twins, newly college graduates, took the lead — waffles, coffee, golf on TV. Comforts. Familiar rhythms that wrapped the day in a quiet kind of warmth.

I gave him something small, but meaningful: a rainbow light catcher. Just a clear crystal prism, strung with rainbow-colored beads. I’d found it online. The enclosed card read:


“Crystal catchers glow with memories of loved ones. Sunlit rainbows embody cherished moments and enduring lo

He didn’t say much — he didn’t need to. The gesture spoke for itself: I see you. I remember her too.



Navigating Grief Gently

There’s no script for days like these. We’ve stopped trying to “fix” them. Instead, we let them unfold.

The twins each wrote thoughtful cards. I added my own — just a few lines of love. No speeches. No big performances. Just space.

Later that day, my mom called. She needed help while recovering from surgery. I promised to come the next week. But I was tired. Jet-lagged from our trip to Japan. Emotionally worn.

I snapped — not dramatically, but enough to notice. I felt like a teenager, not a grown woman. Thankfully, laughter came soon. Between my mom and my brother, the tension dissolved. A quiet reminder: grief doesn’t travel alone — it walks with fatigue, frustration, tenderness, and love.


Returning to the Quiet In-Between

With the chaos of May and our travels behind us, the house feels still. I’m learning to rest in this in-between space. No major plans. Just the rhythm of home.

We hung the rainbow catcher in our living room window. When the sun hits it just right, color dances across the walls. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just present.

A gentle reminder: memory doesn’t have to shout to be heard.


The Space Between

This week — the space between Father’s Day and Lily’s birthday — is tender.

It’s not a holiday. It’s not a milestone. Just a pause.

It feels like holding your breath underwater. Or like noticing how the light shifts across the floor in the afternoon.

We’re not doing anything big this week. But we feel her. In the quiet. In how we move a little slower. Speak a little softer.

We remember.

We let the rainbow catcher do its quiet work — scattering light, holding space.

If you find yourself in an in-between — between one tender day and the next — know this: you are not alone. This space matters too.


Honoring Loved Ones with Light

If you’re navigating Father’s Day after loss, please remember: your grief doesn’t need a spotlight. Your joy doesn’t need to be loud.

Sometimes, grief looks like waffles and golf. Sometimes, it looks like a crystal on a chain, casting tiny rainbows across your kitchen wall.

If you’re looking for a similar rainbow light catcher, this is the one I found and love:

👉 Rainbow Light Catcher – Amazon Affiliate Link

As an Amazon affiliate, I may earn a small commission if you purchase — at no extra cost to you. Thank you for supporting this space.


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