Grief, Under the Elm Archives

April 2026 Quote: Let a Little Wildness Have its Way

Posted on May 2, 2026May 2, 2026 by Emily OehlerLeave a Comment

As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For April 2026, my quote was, “…but the brave thing to do is to let a little wildness have its way with us, to see where it takes us.”

My mom has a collection of children’s books, all of which she read to me countless times growing up. A top favorite of hers being “Where the Wild Things Are.” Frustrated, the main character ventures off into his imagination to live with the Wild Things until love brings him home to his mom. I always enjoyed the adventure of it—the freedom of the boy to explore the beyond. But, I loved the comfort of his return home. Mom waiting with a hot meal and a hug for him. The safety of love in the wildness of bravery.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month regarding “brave” and “a little wildness”:

Welcome back to your happy place
You’re a steward of souls
May our love be more fierce than our grief
Letting what comes, come
Is it stillness or movement that is required?
What if I can’t see what comes next because it is what comes next?
Let us give each other a place to rest
Get courageous
Be brave, be changed
There is always something amazing, everywhere
The soul does not want to be saved, it wants to be seen and heard
But what multitudes they contain
Love is the unrecognized invitation
In an act of terrified surrender, I gave myself over to my Great Absurdity
I am she who exists in all fears and in trembling boldness

April revealed that wildness comes in many forms and is a wonderful place to explore. Growth, affirmation, and wisdom reside there.

I wandered into the wilderness a few times this past month. I felt when the wilderness called me to come. Knotted stomach. Fits and starts of energy. Tense shoulders. Eagerness with cautious hesitation. A swirl of curiosity, hope, and worry linked by “what ifs.”

Then came bravery… the idea shared, the invitation given, the hand raised, the inner made public, the emotional reveal held out for others to finally see.

My breath held. The step forward made.

And to my amazement, each time – just like in mom’s favorite book – love arose, and welcomed me home.

Home to an expanded friendship with a former coworker with a promise for continued “presence.” Home to a mindfulness practice that comforted weary federal employees, one of whom said when she heard my words she knew she was in a “safe space.” Home to stability which a coworker said my email provided amidst “life’s chaos.” Home to comfort as I grieved the demolition of my church’s Chapel where I’ve always felt my Dad’s presence and fellow church members shared their sacred stories from that sacred space with me. Home to connection after a complex day as I opened the mail and read a friend’s handwritten note about my posts of Facebook, “I appreciate your vulnerability. I hope you know how much your voice resonated with so many of us.” Home to encouragement as I shared a guarded idea with a friend on a morning walk.

Upon reflection, the wilderness… my wilderness… is not dark with scary monsters. But rather a curtain of uncertainty. A veil – that when passed through bravely, vulnerably – always seem to return me to love.

The & at Easter, and Always

Posted on April 5, 2026April 5, 2026 by Emily Oehler1 Comment

While normally Easter is a sunny, colorful day… I woke up somber.

On the way to church tears fell. No reason, just release.

I sat in church and accepted it.

I felt dad’s absence. I felt a friend’s concern of an extended job search. I felt a friend’s pain of her husband’s addiction. I felt a friend’s abyss with the death of his mother, now both parents gone physically. I felt my friend’s anxiety from her house burned this week. I felt a friend’s new tradition to honor her deceased child with flowers in her Easter basket rather than sugar treats for an eternal 6 year old. I felt a friend’s exhaustion, anger, and fear as her transgender kids face the world. I felt a friend’s concern as her special ops son is on assignment in the world, in parts unknown. I feel a friend’s hopeful caution as she seeks to provide her gifts to the world with a new business.

While I sought the “normal” of Easter, it would not come. So, I sat with the somber.

The tears sat on the rims of my eyelashes, periodically one would fall from the weight of the world.

Then the & arrived.

For the first time, the congregation was invited up to go up and stand in the chancel with the choir and sing as we could Handel’s “Hallelujah chorus” (forward to 3:30 at the end with the glorious Westminster Presbyterian Church choir. Each section holding up a sign to help guide us forward to a place of belonging: alto, base, tenor, soprano.

& so, I accepted the invitation.

I walked forward and found a place. I stood on the edge. The fringe of the sopranos.

I fiercely followed the words, using my finger to keep pace on the sheet music.

& I let it all go.

Boldly loud. Fully felt.

Absorbed in community, feeling a new emotion through song.

& walked back to my pew, refreshed in a new way, more centered than somber.

Because the & is present, always.

I just have to exhale & find it.

It’s OK

Posted on January 17, 2026January 18, 2026 by Emily OehlerLeave a Comment

Two years ago today, my alarm woke me up and I quietly went downstairs. There in the kitchen just before daybreak, I prepared my dad’s medication as hospice instructed. I dropped the liquid into dad’s mouth as he lay calmly on the hospital bed somewhere between here and there. Worn out from a decade of Alzheimer’s.

I leaned over and whisper in his ear, “It’s OK. Go be at ease.”

I went back upstairs and slept for about 25 minutes. Exhausted on so many levels.

I woke up, paused, and listened.

No sound from the baby monitor in dad’s makeshift bedroom downstairs.

No wet raspy breath.

Quiet.

Sun on his face.

He was gone.

Today mom, brother, and I sat around the small kitchen table with a favorite breakfast: pancakes with blueberries in the batter, crispy bacon, and syrup. Warm beverages, stories, laughter, current events, teasing, Presbyterian something–one long endless discussion when we’re together. Just as it’d always been around our family table during meals.

But there was a hole.

And empty seat.

A broken link in our Oehler chain.

Dad should be here with us.

He would have loved this. He does love this.

But with laughter and tears and hugs, I realized “it’s OK.”

It’s OK because his presence is both missed and felt.

It’s OK because I crave him and am grateful he’s at peace.

It’s OK because I’m alone in our grief and we’re together in our loss.

It’s OK because I carry his DNA, love, spirit, and stubbornness

It’s OK because we have physical touchstones… brother in his vest, me in his old wool sweater, mom with his wedding ring around her neck – touchable reminders when we need him most.

It’s OK because his faith, and ours, reminds us he’s at home, not just with his maker but with those who went before.

It’s OK because I’m sad and know that it comes from immense love.

It’s OK because of the friends and angels along my sorrowful journey forward.

It’s OK because life is a wonderful finite gift, of which death is a part.

It’s OK because my grief has changed over time, less consumption and more mood swing or glimmer into mystery.

It’s OK because when I most wish to sit next to him by the fire and talk through something complex, I realize I still can … I just have to listen differently.

It’s OK because when I see his smile, even in a photo, my heart still feels it.

It’s OK… the grief, the hurt, the sad days, the tears, the ache, the loneliness… because I love him and he’s at ease.

New Year’s Day 2026

Posted on January 1, 2026December 31, 2025 by Emily OehlerLeave a Comment

To end 2025, I tried to catch my breath. In the process I found a piece I wrote at a writer’s conference with poet John Roedel in August of 2024 in the mountains of North Carolina. It feels right to share on the start of a new year.

The guidance was to find a spot and write for 12 minutes without stopping or editing…

Here I am. Soul open. A sponge to absorb it all. Fresh Air. Strong sun. Nature sounds. Universe in every way. Peace of night. Warmth of day. Silliness. Openness. Laughter. Openness. Longing. Openness. Pain. Openness. Desire. Openness. Pain. Openness. Next. Determination. Next. Love. Next. Success. Next. Me. Next.

SHIFT

TWIST

MOVE

I want to go forward but it all feels so vast. Am I frozen, fearful, furious, forlorn?

Tired… weary… exhausted… connected… tethered… tentative… expectant.

If I move what will be lost? What will I gain? Hope is here.

Why am I stagnant? Am I waiting? Mind full or mindful? Patient? Lost? Lonely?

Untethered.

Do I want to be grounded… what will I find or leave behind?

Clock stopped. New guidance to keep going for another 12 minutes…

Is grief opportunity, escape, avoidance… a desire for lingering connection to him and to “Him”? The veil thin. The energy big but simple.

Hopeful. Still.

Am I tired or has my frequency changed? Is my dial down low… was it even good before? Did I override or overload? Is the space needed, necessary, or a hack to avoidance?

Will my energy return? Is it really gone? Is my vibration off or just more seamlessly aligned—smooth with less resistance?

LESS RESISTANCE

My call… what sparks, what nags, what excites, what yells, what bellows, what beckons?

I am good. I am different. I am grounded in space.

INFINITY

December 2025 Quote: Joy

Posted on December 29, 2025December 29, 2025 by Emily Oehler2 Comments

As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For December 2025, my quote was simple the word “Joy.”

While on the surface Joy might seem like an easy choice heading into Advent (with a Joy-candle in the Advent wreath no less) and the celebration of Christmas at month’s end. I chose this word, however, more as an intentional counterbalance for my internal season, rather than to amplify the external holiday season. Two years ago December shifted for me … from a habit of lit trees, holiday songs, and sweets to a bit of an annual countdown to my dad’s death. As my mind recalls the still mind-boggling rapid decline of my dad between Thanksgiving and his dead mid-January, my body re-lives it – like muscle memory – the tension, gripping hold, frenetic effort to control the inevitable. No, not to stop it, but rather to moderate it. Stop the free fall and help us all land safely in the unknown. Each December, I feel this all again… echoes… whispers… shadow sensations that I know are not for now but present none the less. So, this year, I chose Joy. Not to mask my emotions and bodily sensations but to remind me, in a way that honored what I learned from dad, that “this too shall pass” and that there is always Joy (glimmers of a greater force and larger love) amidst the heartache.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month regarding Joy:

Truly!
How the stars get into your bones
In their hearts, humans plan their course—but the Lord establishes their steps
Anguish is the doorway through which our personal suffering meets all the griefs that are shared by the world
We have been defending and fighting against acknowledging everything that has been there all along and has often been traveling faithfully from afar to knock on our door
Rest feels as if we are letting down our guard and refusing to defend what we instinctively feel must be constantly defended to the last
The only real invitation to belief, and to believe in what I believe in, is through my actions: actions that tell others that I still actually remember
That the source actually existed inside me in the first place
You don’t need to be perfect; you just need to be gentle
What if I could love the world just as it is and what if I could love everyone and every last thing in it, just as they are?
Breath is the very first thing we give to this world and the very last thing we are allowed to take from it… moments of pure holiness
And now love joins the dance of light
Strong back, open heart

As I sit here thinking about the month a realization emerges, along with an accepting sigh.

Joy requires presence and an open heart. Presence and an open heart also let in everything else. And it’s in that mix of sadness, worry, wonder, loss, anticipation, fear, hope, uncertainty, and silliness that Joy resides.

Joy is not alone.

Joy comes in community.

This realization reinforced as I look to my left, to the windowsill next to my desk, and see a notebook that began January 2023. The last year of my dad’s life. This spiral-bound notebook with “love wins” over rainbow color blocking contains three years of notes about my life—when love, laughter, wonder, compassion, and confirmation (in other words, Joy) appeared through my community on average days and in complex moments.

Page after page after page of Joy in all her many forms.

Surprise. Surrender. Song. Sunrise. Solitude. Smile. Support. Splendor. Steadfast. Softness.

Her presence, often more twinkling star than blazing sun, shone through others – strangers and loved ones alike. Simple comments, gestures, experiences that lessened my load and lit my way. The Joy-giver most likely clueless as to what they transmitted… and that a Joy in and of itself. That we each emanate Joy simply by being present and in community with others.

Simply put, Joy holds my hand tightly for which I’m eternally grateful.

The Both of Grief…

Posted on December 18, 2025April 25, 2026 by Emily OehlerLeave a Comment

Each year, near the winter solstice, my church holds a “longest night” service when there is more darkness than sunlight. This year titled “Lament & Hope.” This slow-paced contemplative service strips away the pageantry of a typical Sunday morning worship service and provides a quiet protected space to acknowledge life’s hardships–the grief we carry. The loss, the worry, and the fear are the focus. No urge to fix. No meaningless platitude given. No should-haves spoken. Just acceptance that was is felt is real and accepted. A key part of the service is for participants to light a candle for items, people, issues that are heavy on their heart… the candlelight, created in community, lights our path as we leave the sanctuary. Here is what I wrote about this years’ service…

Last night I sat in sanctuary… both a place and sensation.

Low lights with soft shadows… both a balm from life’s holiday glow and reflection of our insides.

A large, vaulted ceiling room adorned with holiday greens, candles, and religious icons… both cavernous and comforting.

Row after row after row of empty pews… both a sense of lonely isolation and representative of loved ones no longer present in our lives.

A small group of individuals with space between us… both a physical bubble as our tenderness emanated around us and yet clustered in one section craving company.

Spoken scripture, sung songs, shared meditation… both comfort and not enough.

An invitation to light… both a lifeline and heavy hearted step to take.

Others rise, reflect, and reach to light candles for their loss, loved ones, unknowns, fears, pain… both to honor and claim them in an effort to live with them in the “and” between love and loss.

The pause… both weighted and overwhelming.

The exhale… both to release and take in.

The tears… both endless and not enough.

The grief… both alone and in community.

The glow… both a call and comfort.

November 2025 Quote: Hospitality and Angels

Posted on November 30, 2025November 30, 2025 by Emily OehlerLeave a Comment

As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For November 2025, my quote was: “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for in doing so, some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

This quote comes from the Bible, Hebrews 13:2. It found me as I stood in my friend’s farmhouse kitchen. A friend who decades ago became family and now faced the black hole of the sudden death of her mother. The pastor picked the passage for the funeral. For hours over an October weekend, I stood in the well-used farm kitchen as loved ones came by to not simply show their respects, but to soak up the lingering presence of a woman who welcomed, fed, and resorted hundreds of people with her faith-filled cooking. Using this quote seemed only fitting for my focus throughout November, a month of gratitude and hospitality.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month regarding “show hospitality to strangers”:

To be concerned, grieving, furious—and still be present and grateful to the quicksilver whimsey of a chipmunk darting under the porch… that’s you winning
The process of letting go makes room for something new
We’re all just walking each other home
This is the baptism of true feeling: The deeper we go, the slower the world; the slower the world, the softer our way
To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord
You’re always becoming more yourself

It’s pitch black at 4:30am as I sit to write this. Unable to sleep. Toes cold. Body cozy in a favorite lime green fleece.

As I read and reread these few quotes – a bit lost for what to write about them – I notice it.

Stillness.

No sound. No movement.

Stillness.

Darkness pushed back by the glow of my monitor.

Stillness

A sense of being held. Emersed in a tranquil moment muffled from the external chaos of the world and internal clutter of my mind.

Just quiet stillness except for my large exhale.

I close my eyes. Relax in my chair. And simply notice my breath, in and out.

A small grin as I thought beyond the moment, to the month.

So many everyday events. Mindless habits, routine activities, detached encounters. Noise. Bricks laid building a life. Moving forward yet not really going anywhere.

Between them the mortar.

Another sigh exhaled

Oh, the mortar.

The space between.

The hug. The check-in. The encouragement. The card filled with love. The soul bearing phone call. The cardinal. The humorous meme. The compliment. The tears. The prayers. The sunrise. The text. The car. The outburst of laughter. The thank you. The acceptance. The dog. The walk. The colored leaves swirling. The meal at the kitchen table.

Another sigh exhaled.

So many angels.

Grief Guide

Posted on November 23, 2025November 23, 2025 by Emily Oehler1 Comment

Today felt circular, complex, and connectional. Like a standing in a wide-open field and seeing a new constellation take shape in the sky. Blinking and it was gone, but the warm sensation of wonder remained inside me.

I sat in my favorite pew in the little quaint white chapel of Westminster Presbyterian Church as sun pierced through the wooden shades. Before the service started, I turned to the back of the space, and whispered, “Hey dad.” Acknowledging his remains – and ever presence – in the small columbarium. Then jubilantly sang, “Come Sing, O Church, In Joy.” The sermon focused on searching for beautiful and truthful words, said plainly.

Next, I shared my words as part of a three-person panel on how our faith fit into my career journey. How did it guide me or impact my career decisions? Where had there been conflict between faith and my job? Where and how did I work with others with a different faith, and what was that like? What would I offer to folks to think about in terms of faith and work? Big questions I’d honestly not thought of before, and candidly, had a hard time working through in preparation for the Sunday morning discussion in our adult Christian formation program. What I sought were lightning bolt moments. What I found were small whispers of light in my own constellation….

How faith and career were rooted in a family legacy of stories of how various loved ones demonstrated their faith, such as my Grandmother Oehler who as an elementary school teacher would strong arm local dentists and physicians to care for students in need of care in her class… How my parents encouraged me to boldly use my God given talents… How there was an element of faith as I stepped into each new opportunity at work, such as starting my consulting career with Army’s program to support families of the fallen during OIF/OEF.
How the Bible’s guidance to care for the “least of these” called on me to mentor and advocate for those outside the typical corporate structure—to try to help level the playing field and empower those with their own unique and beautiful constellation to shine more brightly in a way that worked for them and others needed too.
How learning about my co-worker’s faith – from Judaism to Muslim and Methodist – deepened our relationships, made me a more aware leader, and grew my own faith.
How helping severely wounded combat Soldiers tell their complex stories changed how I saw and showed up in the world.
How my intention for 2025 – “help authentically” (taped above my computer camera) – guided me in ways I never could have imagined this past year as I got on numerous calls the past 10 months with clients, coworkers, and friends regarding contract cuts, layoffs, and career loss. So much grief.

On a day that started talking about faith and work… it seemed fitting to close it with the start of a new chapter in my career. This afternoon I attended my final class to be a Grief Guide through a three-month program offered by The Grieverly. As I explained in the one-hour grief session I hosted for my capstone project, “When asked what led me to become a Grief Guide, the best answer I’ve found is, ‘I had a feeling and listened to it.’”

The first portion of this final class featured a gratitude ritual, then a 10-minute break. During the break I received a text from my brother. While I’m typically phone free for my class, I picked it up. There I saw him wearing one of our Dad’s stoles. A white one for Christ the King Sunday. Tears of joy and grief fell as Dad once again showed up to encourage my growth, my career, and my faith as I stepped forward into the unknown.

For our final course activity, we took 20 minutes to write a letter to our future self as a Grief Guide. And, in keeping with this morning’s sermon on plain, beautiful, truthful words, I boldly share mine:

Emily,

You know. You are grounded in a legacy of faith. You are touched and you are called. The path is there – always – regardless of its line of sight. Feel your roots. Welcome others to the protection, cover of support of your branches. Let them rest – and rest with them. The care is not yours alone to give.

You know. The seasons will change, and in that there is sadness, wonder, relief, and joy. All are good. All should be accepted, felt, and allowed to move on.

You know. You have a call, a skill, an intuition, a spirit. Pause and play with her. Open your hand to invite rather than clinch tightly. Let her flow and flow with her. Feel her breeze. Sway.

You know. There is a spark. While strong and steady it dims from exhaustion, doubt, outside expectations, internal pressures, habits, and protection. Feed it. Let it rise and shine. Watch as it gets thin and fades. Draw up the renewal and renewed energy of your community of women—each gifted and big hearted.

You know. Stop doing. Listen. And listen more. Step forward. You are protected as you protect others. You are loved, appreciated, and supported. Fully accept it and bring that space and experience to others on your path.

You know.

Welcome it.

Welcome others.

With love and ease,

Emily

October 2025 Quote: Be Still… and Practice

Posted on November 2, 2025November 2, 2025 by Emily OehlerLeave a Comment

As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For October 2025, my quote was: “Be still… and practice.”

October always marks my new year. Crisp air that reawakens my spirit. Color kissed leaves that make me pause in awe. Sweeping wind that moves me forward. Nature’s way of shifting me into a discerning state: reflect on my year, check in with myself, and plant some intentional personal seeds to grow for the new year. I also try to connect more with those I love who feed my soul with goodness, curiosity, and joy. They are my fertilizer.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart as I was still… and practiced being me:

Love is the only revenge
How do we live in such a way that the wonder of feeling out fuels the pain of breaking?
Each of us a tiny well striving to find and ride the Universal current without perishing
Notice. Breathe. Allow.
The most profound thing you said this weekend was, “what is next?”
How are we going to live a life we look forward to looking back at?
Sprit lead me to where my trust has no borders
To new beginnings and beyond
All that you touch you change; All that you change changes you; The only lasting truth is change; God is change
Discern what belongs in the present and what echoes from the past
My actions are my only true belongings
Jumping for joy is good exercise
Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach
I’m grateful I get to know what it’s like to be in the circle of your shine
Jump before you fall
We’re better off for all that we let in
You are that which you are seeking

Along with the weather change, nature was the backdrop to my month, especially farms. Every where I went, I felt grounded to the earth – as if my roots were soaking up nutrients for my soul.

Be Still… and Practice in Community

I pulled the quote for this month from the title of a weekend retreat I created and led for Westminster Presbyterian Church. Specifically, for its members who are more senior and also single. On a farm in western Maryland with an open vista and mountains in the distance we joined in community to “be still… and practice” with our minds, emotions, bodies, life, and faith. It truly was a gift to start my month with such wise, heart-open, playful people. In between neuroscience and neuroplasticity we breathed like lions, named our rocks, prayed in the dark, and sang in the silo. In the evening, I snuck out – as I’ve been apt to do at every church retreat since childhood – and laid on the grass under the glitter of a clear stary night. “Hey Dad…” my conversation began. This stillness brought connection, and also practice with grief – a lingering state of “and” that tethers love to loss.

Be Still… and Practice in Nature

Mid-way through October, mom and I went on a spontaneous adventure to North Carolina. We ate our way across the state visiting family and friends… and ran into trolls at Dix Park. We wandered through massive park and on wooded trails to meet these giant wooden friends. I felt a bit like I’d stepped into the book “Where the Wild Things Are.” (Mom’s favorite.) It was a delight – true childlike wonder – to run and play hide and seek with 20 foot tall wooden trolls… and then I laid in a hammock looking up at the sky-high pine trees. Their wisdom swayed around me as they danced with the wind.

After being grounded in the forest, mom and I took a higher perspective at the North Caroline State Fair. The serine evergreens replaced by more lights and sounds than we could consume. Total sensory overload as we took a birds-eye view on the Fair’s “sky high” gondola ride. On our way out of the Fair, we made a last stop in the “ag exhibit” – like a detox from all the afternoon’s sights and sounds. Inside we delighted in all the earth provides thanks to farmers’ expertise, persistence, and faith. A 2,300 pound pumpkin. Five rambunctious piglets with their worn-out mom. More than 20 kinds of sweet potatoes and nearly as many kinds of apples. Milk and beef cows. Roosters and hens. And the little royalty of it all, a queen bee with her hive.

Be Still… and Practice with Faith

On my birthday I once again found myself in the “and” of life with my little sister from college, at her family’s farm, following her mother’s death. “There is no way to count how many people my mom let live here with us over the years. Farm workers. Our extended family. Truck drivers. Orphaned children. So many.” “The farmhouse was home to everyone who walked in the door.” “Oh man, her biscuits were the best. She made a tray of ‘em each morning to feed everyone working here.” “She was like a mom to me.” “The orange room was mine room for several years… Hey! That was my room too!” Story after story family, friends, and neighbors smiled at they spoke broken hearted about Willie, a woman who mothered a community.

I stood in the kitchen, the heart of everyone’s memories, and listened to person after person spoke of her lived faith. I heard of the meals she made and the canned goods she shared. I heard of the acceptance she gave her son, grandson, and community as she worked to have a part of the AIDS quilt displayed in the county. I heard of the “least of these” she cared for inside her home for months and years at a time. At one point I looked out the kitchen window and saw the black angus cows gathered in a field close to the house. I wasn’t sure if they too had stories to share or simply wanted to gather close in community, feeling the farm’s loss. All that Willie harvested – people, animals, and plants – connected.

As I listened, I thought of dad and all the stories he heard as a Presbyterian pastor. While I think he had many talents, I think funerals were his greatest gift…weaving love and the gift of the resurrection into broken hearts. As I took notes and worked on a eulogy for the family, I felt him with me. A calm presence that helped me be fully in the moment so I could absorb and reflect back the grace, grit, compassion, and care that emanated from this faith-filled woman.

Be Still… and Practice with Life

Upon reflection, I realized it wasn’t the quote that matters, but rather each word…

Be.

Be in the moment. Be in the emotions. Be with life. Be with loss. Be with an open heart. Be with wonder. Be with laughter. Be with tears. Be with others. Be with yourself. Be a safe place. Be grateful.

Still.

Still sing when your heart breaks. Still play as an adult. Still star gaze. Still soak up a sunset. Still listen to the cows moos. Still dance with the fire ants. Still pray. Still hope. Still seek the trolls. Still ride the ride. Still pass on family traditions. Still welcome a stranger. Still hug everyone you love. Still bake the biscuits.

And.

And know you’re not alone. And that this too shall pass.

Practice.

Practice planting. Practice nourishing. Practice growing. Practice sharing. Practice being your better self in this moment, and the next, and the next, and the next.

August 2025 Quote: Sunshine

Posted on August 31, 2025August 31, 2025 by Emily OehlerLeave a Comment

Only one or two other times have I picked 1 word for my monthly phrase. I saw many phrases but they felt forced, judgy, and heavy. Or, perhaps that’s what I was feeling all arAs I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For August 2025, my quote was: “Sunshine.”

Only one or two other times have I picked 1 word for my monthly phrase. I saw many phrases but they felt forced, judgy, and heavy. Or, perhaps that’s what I was feeling all around me and it tainted what I saw? So, I sat, reflected, and sensed my phrase from within. Sunshine arose, and it felt good in every way. Brightness to invade the dark corners. Vitamins for my body. Warmth for my soul.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart as I lived in the “sunshine”:

A radiant, glitter-covered menace of joy
But a holy thing to love what death can touch
Grief dares us to love one more
An ongoing exchange with the great body of life
We are most alive at the threshold between loss and revelation
We are designed to encounter this life with amazement and wonder, not resignation and endurance
Everything is a gift, and nothing lasts
Grief is akin to praise
I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just to the length of it; I want to have lived the width as well
Finally on my way to yes
Worth and welcome
Holy ground of sorrow
Soul activism
Embrace the amazing chance we have to be alive
I consider eternity as another possibility
I want to step through the door full of curiosity wondering

August, as it always does, brought relaxation with our annual family beach vacation. Sunshine fully present around me.

I welcomed the daybreak of sunshine a few mornings on the beach, standing with others like the angels each day in the movie “City of Angels.” Cool blues and lavenders snuck across the morning sky as the gold slowly merged. I protected against sun’s fierceness slathered in SPF under a tent and in the ocean. Bold yellow at noon-day peak. I honored its spirit at day’s end. Oranges and pinks as the bold ball sank at sunset.

The stillness in the sun’s presence soothed me… and illuminated just how depleted I was.

Tense.

Worn out.

Forlorn.

Frustrated.

Angry.

Sad.

Lost.

There was no single cause, more like depletion from a thousand paper cuts.

Tearful clients.

Fearful friends.

Panicked coworkers.

Ailing loved ones.

So many in my community unsettled, vulnerable, broken, and in need.

But the sunshine persisted, as she always does.

Light in the darkness.

Nourishment.

Hope.

I soaked it all up.

Recharged.

Recentered.

Renewed.

Reinvested.

Reinvigorated.

No, the sunshine didn’t change the factors that weighted down my bone and being. But her rays bore in and bolstered me. Filling up the marrow of optimism in my bones.

My time in the sun’s cocoon reoriented me… rather, reminded me that rest is restorative. And essential. Our nervous systems (brain, body, soul) require time to calibrate, process, and renew—to be still in the frenzy. Staying in hyperdrive or constantly being hypervigilant is not sustainable.

The sun has the moon.

And… with the new day comes new possibilities.