September: A Month of Remembering, Grieving, and Hoping

"September has always been a month of change—the air shifts, the days grow shorter, and a new season quietly unfolds. But for me, September is more than the turning of a calendar. It is the month that holds both the beauty of Ryan’s birth and the heartbreak of his death.

As summer fades into fall, I can almost feel a heaviness settle in my heart. Even the sound of the cicadas brings a flood of memories—reminders of my son’s life, and at the same time, reminders of the deep loss that came too soon.

This year, Ryan would have turned 25 on September 7. I often wonder what life might look like for him today. Would he have a special someone by his side? Would he be engaged, married, maybe even be a father? I can picture his smile, hear his laughter, the deep raspiness of his gruff voice, and remember his determination. His life was full of so much promise, and my heart aches for all the moments that will never be.

And then, just days later, on September 13, we mark five years since his passing. Five years since we said goodbye. Five years of aching for the moments we’ll never get back.  I say this often, but five years seems like a lifetime ago and yet just yesterday in the very same breath.

There is a constant tension in grief—the pull between joy and sorrow, between remembering and missing, between celebrating life and mourning death. It’s raw. It’s real. Over time, the sharp edges soften, but grief never disappears; it simply becomes a faithful companion.

September is also Suicide Awareness Month, and that truth cuts deeply. It’s not just that we lost our son—it’s that we lost him to suicide. Ryan’s story has become part of a larger, painful narrative shared by countless families: lives ended too soon, battles fought silently, and loved ones left to carry the ache.

There’s a big part of me that wishes I could gloss over this part of our story. I remember when we first heard the news, I wanted to cover it up, to tell a different version—that Ryan died suddenly, tragically, without mentioning suicide. Even now, I sometimes wish I could “wrap the reality” in prettier packaging, something easier for myself—and the world—to bear.

But from the very moment I faced the unthinkable, God pressed something deeply on my heart: be raw, be real, and tell the story I’ve given you. Not the polished version, but the true one. He calls me to trust Him with the process, to let Him use even this brokenness for His glory.

My prayer is that by choosing honesty, God will use Ryan’s story—and our story—to break through some of the silence. To remind others who are struggling that they are not alone. And above all, to point to the hope that has sustained me every step of the way: Christ, my anchor, my healer, and my reason to keep going.

If I’m honest, there have been many moments over the past five years when I thought grief might swallow me whole. I still remember walking down my long driveway the very day Ryan died, side by side with my dear friend Ang. Through tears, I confessed to her my deepest fear—that I might not survive this loss—and I begged her not to leave me.  There have been countless conversations with God since then—some whispered, some cried out, some still happening today. Over and over, my prayer has been simple and desperate: “Lord, don’t let me go. Don’t loosen Your grip on me. Even if I don’t have the strength to hold on to You, hold me fast.”  

And He has.  His Word promises it:

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)

Even when my grip falters, His hand never lets go.  He is the one that does the holding.

There is such comfort in knowing that God’s grip is stronger than my own. Even when I feel weak, lost, or overwhelmed by sorrow, He has proven over and over again that His promises are true. The truth is, I don’t have to hold everything together—because He is the One who holds me. When waves of grief rise high, I remind myself that my security doesn’t depend on my ability to cling tightly to Him, but on His unshakable commitment to never let me go. That is where my hope rests, not in my strength, but in His unfailing love.

As we step into this September—Ryan’s birthday, the anniversary of his passing, and Suicide Awareness Month—I carry both grief and gratitude in my heart. Grief for what was lost, but gratitude for the 20 years and 6 days I had with my son. Ryan’s life mattered. His story matters. And even his death, as heartbreaking as it is, can be used by God to shine light into the darkness.

That’s why, on September 13, the very day we remember Ryan’s passing, we will gather at the Color the Path for Hope Run/Walk in Watertown. Together, as Team Run for Ryan – GodAboveAllElse.com, we will wear red bandanas (Ryan’s favorite color as a boy), place special stickers on our shirts, meet for a team picture, say a prayer and run/walk.  This will be a time where we not only honor and remember Ryan’s life, but the thousands of other lives impacted by suicide and mental health struggles.  This event is more than a race/walk—it’s a visible testimony that grief and love can coexist. If you have not done so already, I pray that you would join us on September 13th  Together, may we break the silence, offer compassion, and be bold enough to point others toward the only true and lasting hope—Jesus Christ.

If you are struggling, please reach out. You do not have to walk this road alone. And if you are supporting someone in their struggle, may you have the courage to love them well, listen deeply, and point them toward the hope of Christ.

This September, as we run/walk, remember, and raise awareness, may we fix our eyes on the One who promises to turn mourning into dancing, ashes into beauty, and despair into praise. And above all, may we choose every day to put God Above All Else.