Owens Memorial Services

02/27/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

I did not know that sound would matter this much. The way you walked down the hallway. The slight rhythm of it. The way I could tell it was you without even looking up. That ordinary noise was proof you were here. It meant I was not alone in the house.
Now the quiet is different. It is not peaceful. It is hollow. I find myself listening for something that will not come back. Sometimes I still pause, just for a second, convinced I heard you. And then I remember. And the remembering lands all over again.
It is strange what grief takes from us. Not just the big milestones, but the small, repetitive sounds that made up a life together. Footsteps. A door closing. The way you cleared your throat. Those details were woven into my nervous system. Their absence is loud.
If you miss something as simple as the sound of footsteps, you are not dramatic. You are grieving someone whose presence filled space in ways you never measured until it was gone. These small things matter because they were pieces of a real life. Over time, the silence shifts. It does not hurt in the same constant way. But the love underneath it never leaves. And if this resonates with you, please like, follow, and share.

02/26/2026

02/26/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

A single yellow flower rests against a pale sky,
the sea stretching quietly below.

There is a question grief asks
over and over again:
Why?

Why the gentle ones?
Why the kind hearts?
Why the ones who brought light
into rooms that needed it?

It feels unfair.
Unbalanced.
As if time miscounted.

We look around
and see cruelty lingering,
coldness surviving,
while golden hearts
are taken too soon.

There is no answer that satisfies.
No explanation that truly heals.

Grief wrestles with the mystery.
Love refuses to let go.
And somewhere between anger and longing,
we stand—
holding memories like fragile treasures.

The question may never fade.
But neither will the love.

And perhaps that love
is its own quiet defiance
against the silence.

— Miss You Forever

02/25/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

A small red bird flies above quiet, layered waves.
The sea stretches on and on,
endless and steady—
like time itself.

I wasn’t ready.
There was no warning that felt real enough.
No way to prepare my heart
for the length of forever.

The water keeps moving,
rolling forward without hesitation.
But I feel suspended in that first moment—
the one where everything changed.

I measure my days differently now.
Before you.
After you.
And the long stretch of learning how to breathe in between.

The bird keeps flying,
wings steady against the open sky.
I wonder if that’s what survival looks like—
moving forward even when the ocean feels too wide.

I wasn’t ready.
I’m still not.
But somehow, the tide carries me anyway.

— Grief & You

02/24/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

Grief is exhausting in ways people rarely talk about.

Not just emotional exhaustion.

But mental.
Physical.

Even decision-making exhaustion.

If you’re tired, foggy, unmotivated, or drained,
your grief may simply be asking for energy.

Not everything is a lack of strength.
Sometimes it’s grief just doing its work.

From: ‘SURVIVING GRIEF – 365 Days A Year’

02/23/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

"A Nearby Distance"

02/22/2026

SUMMITVILLE, IN – Jerry A. Turschman, 85, entered peace and rest from his residence on Saturday, February 21, 2026, following an extended illness.

He was born on September 18, 1940, in Wabash to Bruce and Leta (Conrads) Turschman and has lived in Fairmount and Summitville all his lifetime. J...

02/20/2026

This is so very appropriate for those who care and give...

Before grief entered my life in the way it eventually would, I never imagined I would become a caregiver.

Like many people, I associated the word with professionals, nurses, or people who at least knew what they were doing. I certainly didn’t see myself in that role. Yet life, as it often does, had other plans.

For the year before my spouse died, I became the primary caregiver.

Nothing truly prepares you for that experience. There’s no moment where you suddenly feel ready, confident, or emotionally equipped. You simply find yourself in it, learning as you go, loving as you go, and often feeling like you’re walking through something far bigger than you ever expected to face.

Caregiving is spoken about as an act of love, and it absolutely is. But what’s discussed far less often is how exhausting, frightening, and isolating it can be.

I wasn’t only watching the person I loved struggle physically, but I was also quietly wrestling with anticipatory grief, grieving someone who was still right in front of me.

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak in witnessing that kind of decline. In adjusting to changes you don’t want to accept. In holding hope while sensing reality moving in another direction.

Every day became about tasks, medications, routines, appointments, and responsibilities.

Caregiving has a way of shrinking your world. Your focus narrows. Your energy drains. Your emotional life becomes tangled with fear, sadness, and a desperate wish to stop what can’t be stopped.

What I remember most vividly isn’t any single medical moment. It’s the feeling. The helplessness. The fatigue. The silent terror of knowing life was changing in ways I couldn’t control.

But here’s the thing…along with all of that, was love.

Caregivers carry a unique emotional weight. We live inside the loss long before the loss actually arrives. We’re loving while already grieving. We’re being strong while feeling anything but strong.

If you’re a caregiver, or if you once were, you know what I’m talking about.

National Caregiver Day isn’t just about recognition.

It’s about validation.

Gary Sturgis
Author: ‘SURVIVING – Finding Your Way from Grief to Healing’

02/20/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

02/19/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

02/19/2026

Shirley Arlene Cox-Thurber, 75, entered peace and rest on Tuesday, February 17, 2026, from Community Hospital in Anderson following an extended illness.

She was born on July 1,1950, in Anderson to Carl and Hazel (Johnson) Beemer and has resided in Alexandria most of her lifetime. She was a g...

02/18/2026

Here is today's thought to encourage you on your grief journey...

Being sad feels more honest than pretending I am ok. Grief does not ask me to improve it or transform it or make sense of it. It asks me to feel the absence. To acknowledge the space where you should be. To admit that what we had mattered enough to break me open like this. Sitting in it is brutal. It is uncomfortable and isolating. But twisting it into something positive too soon feels like leaving part of the truth behind.
So sometimes I do nothing. I let the tears come. I let the loss leave its mark. I stop trying to make this tidy or acceptable. I let myself be changed by what happened, even when I do not like the shape of that change. This is how I say you mattered. This is how I say our life mattered. This is how I say the love is still here.
If you are here too, feeling this same pull to fix what cannot be fixed, I see you. Standing still in your sadness does not mean you are failing. It means you are telling the truth. And even though it feels unbearably lonely, there are others sitting in this same quiet ache. You are not alone in it, and you will not always feel it exactly this way, even if right now it feels endless.
If this resonates please like, follow and share.