The Healing Journey

October 18, 2025

My grief found a place to dwell

By Maureen Munger

It’s been more than 45 years but the memory endures. I was pregnant — surprise! It was something I had hoped for, my husband not as much, but he came around. The youngest of our three sons was six, and though we hadn’t planned it, we were equal parts excited and nervous. Maybe this time we would have a daughter.

It was not to be. At the end of three months, I had a painful miscarriage. Another surprise. The weeks following I was encased in sadness. How I had hoped for this child, how terribly I missed her, or him. The sadness colored everything, leaving me in a dark place. I didn’t know how to grieve, how to open myself to my own pain, never mind my husband’s.

Enter my saving grace. My dad George, generally not articulate, especially around emotion, came to visit. He had built the house I grew up in, and for two weeks he worked on crafting a lovely sideboard in my home. I sat next to him in the dining room as he worked, watching his skillful hands, breathing in the scent of sawn wood.

Did he talk? Not much. Did he know how sad I was? Most definitely. In his quiet, purposeful presence, my grief found a place to dwell in safety. He gave me his time, his presence, his work and his silence — himself — and I found a solace that allowed me to begin to heal. He showed up, and showed me that when we tend to each other, we find hope. Thanks, Dad. I miss you.

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