The Part People Don’t Talk About After Someone Dies

Learning to live with grief while discovering the quiet grace that follows

+JMJ+ There is something people rarely talk about after someone dies.

The after.

This morning I woke up thinking about the day my brother died. It's been over 20 years, and yet certain memories are burned into my mind in a way that time will never erase.

I remember the heat and the bright July sun shining outside. It was an ordinary day that would never be ordinary again.

I remember hearing him talking on the phone and then strange, loud breathing sounds. I remember finding him on the floor. I shook him and looked into his piercing blue eyes one last time as he sat up for a few confused seconds, said a few words, and then collapsed again.

I remember running faster than I have ever run in my life to our neighbor’s house, screaming for help. My parents had already called 911, so I am not sure why I ran for help. Perhaps instinct simply took over.

I remember lifting several heavy boards from my parents’ porch with a strength I did not know I had so the EMTs could get through safely.

Soon people were kneeling in front of our house. I remember watching my mom especially. She was kneeling on the ground and rocking back and forth. She knew. God gave her the grace to know that He was going to take her son. But she begged that he would not be taken without the last sacraments, and by the grace of God, that prayer was answered.

Then I remember seeing my now-husband pull up in his car. At the time he was my brother’s best friend. He had been on the phone with Matt when it happened and had no idea what was going on.

There was the ambulance, the hospital, the waiting, the praying, and the people. There was the priest who, thanks be to God, was able to anoint Matt.

Some moments from that hour stand out vividly. I remember comforting my husband, never realizing that my future was sitting right beside me.

I remember the announcement. Then I remember seeing Matt… gone. Lifeless. I remember the shock and disbelief.

The next few days are mostly a blur. I remember crying. I remember praying. I remember being surrounded by kind and loving people.

I remember the biggest thunder and lightning storm the afternoon of his death. The house shook as people gathered in our home to pray.

I also remember being comforted by the knowledge that Matt had been to confession the day before.

And I remember something that still feels like a violation of that sacred grief: the priest who had raped me showing up to “comfort” me. At that time no one knew what he truly was, but his presence in our home while we were drowning in grief felt like a kind of sacrilege.

Then came the wake and the funeral.

The church was completely full. So many priests came. There were moments of beauty and even joy woven into the unbearable sadness. Love was everywhere, but the disbelief was indescribable.

The burial was the moment when it truly struck me. I would never again see my brother on this earth. I would never hear his voice again or his laugh, nor his loud footsteps pounding up the stairs when he came home. Never again would I be awakened by the rhythmic thump of his jump rope hitting the driveway at ungodly hours of the night after finishing his studying.

I do not remember the mercy meal at all. Everything was a blur.

And then there was the after.

Life went on. Everyone (God bless them!) went back to their lives. They had families to care for, jobs to return to, and responsibilities that did not stop simply because our world had.

The sun still rose and set.

I remember thinking how strange that felt. How could the sun possibly keep rising and setting as it always had when our world had just come crashing down?

Time felt as though it had stopped for us, yet everything around us kept moving. Cars drove by. Children played. People laughed. Somehow the world kept turning.

In those first weeks and months there was a strange quiet that followed the busyness of the funeral. At first there were many people bringing food, offering prayers, and sitting with us in our grief. We were profoundly grateful.

Eventually, people had to return to their own lives.

That is when the after truly begins.

That is when you have to face the empty chair at the table, the deafening silence where a voice used to be, and the moments when you instinctively think of telling them something, only to remember that you cannot. Sometimes it is the sound of footsteps you think you hear on the stairs, even though you know they are not there.

Grief also appears in ordinary moments—when you pass a place they loved, hear a song they used to sing, smell their cologne, or see someone who looks like them from across a room.

There were days when the grief felt unbearable and days when the weight of the loss felt so heavy that it was hard to breathe.

Yet there were also small, quiet moments of grace. They were the kind you almost miss if you are not paying attention. Grace appeared in a friend checking in long after everyone else had moved on. It appeared when someone mentioned Matt in conversation, not realizing that hearing his name actually brought comfort.

Grace came through the Masses offered, the prayers said, and the stories shared that reminded us that my brother’s life mattered—not just to us, but to others too. Those moments (those glimmers) are gifts.

One of the quiet fears that accompanies grief is that the person you loved will slowly be forgotten by the world. When someone remembers them, it feels like a small light shining in the darkness.

Grief also changes over time. In the beginning it feels like a tidal wave that knocks you down again and again. Later it becomes something you learn to carry. It does not disappear. Rather, it becomes woven into your life.

It often shows up in harder ways on birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries. It appears on random Sunday mornings when a memory suddenly surfaces out of nowhere. Sometimes it comes in the form of tears. Other times it comes in the form of gratitude. Sometimes, quite surprisingly, it comes in the form of joy when you remember something funny or beautiful about the person you lost.

That is part of the strange mystery of grief. Sorrow and gratitude somehow learn to live side by side.

Over the years I have also seen something else in the after. I have seen how God continues to work.

I have seen how a life (even a life that seemed far too short) can continue to bear fruit long after it is over. God has used my brother’s life, and even his death, in ways I never could have imagined. There has been growth, conversion, and grace.

Would I rather still have my brother here? Of course. There is no question about that, but I have come to see that love does not end with death. It simply changes form. The bonds we share with our loved ones remain. By the grace of God, we take on different roles.

Even now, years later, there are still days when the loss feels fresh. Grief has a way of surprising you like that. Maybe a memory appears out of nowhere (like it did for me this morning). Maybe it’s a song, a smell, or a passing moment that brings everything rushing back.

Mostly, at this point in my life all these years later, I feel a quiet peace. Over time I have come to see that everything unfolds according to God’s mysterious and perfect timing. What once felt only like devastation has also become a place where grace quietly took root.

Perhaps that is one of the most difficult and beautiful parts of the after: learning to live with the loss while still allowing yourself to see the grace.

Life does not stop after death. Love does not end. God, in His mercy, continues to walk with us through every ordinary sunrise and sunset that follows.

If you are grieving someone you love, please know that you are not alone. Grief has a way of making the world feel very quiet and very lonely, especially in the long months and years after the funeral when life seems to move on for everyone else.

Be patient with yourself and with others who grieve. Grief is not something we “get over.” It is something we learn to carry, and we carry it because we loved deeply.

Allow yourself to remember. Allow yourself to cry when the memories come, and to smile and laugh when the beautiful ones surface. Don’t be afraid to speak their name and tell their stories. Love does not end simply because someone is no longer here.

Above all, hold onto hope. God is close to the brokenhearted. Even in the long and difficult “after,” He continues to walk beside us in ways we may not always see in the moment. His grace comes to us again and again just like the sunrise that comes each morning, even after the darkest night.

Please don’t forget to pray for your loved ones today.

May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.