Greg had just come back home to me last summer after a trip with his wife. They went to Malaysia and Thailand, then he flew home.

Everywhere Greg went, he video-chatted with me, letting me see the places he was seeing. He loved trees and nature. He loved beauty, wonder, and the stories hidden inside ordinary things.

This tree, in particular, held one of Greg’s famous stories. He knew all about it, its age, its history, its majestic size, and the kind of beauty that made you stop and pay attention. That was so much like him.

Greg noticed things. He paid attention to the world around him. He carried curiosity with him wherever he went, and when he shared what he knew, he made it all come alive.

I miss his voice. I miss his stories. I miss the way we laughed and carried on. I miss the way he shared the world with me, as if he could not wait for me to see what he was seeing.

More than anything, I miss him.

I’ll see you in a minute.

Copyright © Joy M. Mills 2026

MJM (TM)

His hug enveloped me –

as if the strength of his arms

could stop, if only for us,

what was happening on the

other side of the world.

As if holding each other tightly

enough might press pause on the

unthinkable.

For a moment,

I let myself disappear into that

embrace.

I don’t truly remember much

after that.

Trauma does that – it edits.

It blurs.

It spares you details you could not have

survived in real time.

What I know now comes in pieces,

stitched together later

from the accounts of friends

who were there.

From what they saw.

From what they carried

when I no longer could.

I remember Ben’s arms.

I remember his steadiness.

I remember not being able to

stand on my own.

Everything else lives in fragments.

Voices I couldn’t follow.

Hands guiding me.

Time moving forward

without asking my permission.

What I know for certain is this:

I was held when my mind could

not keep up.

When my body gave way.

When the world broke open.

I was not alone.

Two months today,

I am grateful for my son Ben –

Now my only living child

this side of heaven.

And sometimes,

that is the only mercy

memory allows us to keep.

Copyright © Joy M. Mills 2026

MJM (TM)

Greg traveled a lot.

I always found that interesting about him –

how naturally he moved through the world,

curious and open, never afraid of people or

places.

His love for people was deep and

wide. But animals of all kinds loved him, too.

On one of the many hikes he and his wife

shared over the years, a stray dog began

following them along the trail. He became

their constant companion for that stretch of

the journey. They couldn’t bring him back

with them, but Greg made sure – absolutely

made sure – to find someone who would

care for that particular dog before they left

the country.

That was Greg. He never walked away

without making sure someone was safe.

When he lived in Turkey, a turtle found him.

He walked straight across the road toward

Greg, and Greg didn’t want him hurt or run

over. So, he and his wife stopped. They

made friends with the turtle. They named

him Nouri, which means light. He had a tick,

and for three months they nursed him back

to health. When they arrived home each

day, Nouri would run toward Greg. He loved

cool lettuce. And when he was strong

enough, Greg released him back into his

natural environment – exactly where he

belonged.

I miss Greg’s heart.

I miss his curiosity.

I miss the way he loved all living things.

That’s who my son was.

And that’s who he will always be to me.

Copyright © Joy M. Mills 2026

MJM (TM)

Greg loved the pyramids –

but not because they were serious.

He loved them because they were

impossible. Because someone once looked at empty desert

and said, why not?

Because history, for all its weight,

still leaves room for laughter.

Greg loved life that way.

Curious. Playful. Wide-open.

He could turn a fact into a story,

a story into a joke,

and a room into something warmer

just by being in it.

His humor was gentle, unexpected –

the kind that caught you mid-sentence

and left you smiling without realizing why.

That’s what I miss most.

Not the silence he left behind,

But the sound of him in the middle of living.

Greg.

Saying his name still hurts.

It matters.

Because his life wasn’t a monument –

it was motion.

It was laughter.

It was love, moving freely through the world.

And I would give anything

to hear him laugh again.

Copyright © Joy M. Mills 2026

MJM (TM)

Greg did not leave this world empty-handed.

He left behind a kind of strength that cannot be measured, only felt.

It lives in the way his love still steadies us when the ground gives way. It appears in moments when grief should knock us flat, yet somehow, we remain standing.

Not because we are strong on our own, but because he was, and that strength did not leave with him.

Greg loved with his whole being. Not loudly. Not for recognition. But intentionally.

His love was thoughtful, steady, and deeply rooted. He listened. He noticed. He showed up.

And in doing so, he taught us something sacred: love is not only something you give while you are here; it is something you leave behind.

When he walked this earth, he carried others quietly.

Now, even in heaven, he is still doing that work.

There are days when I do not know how I am breathing, let alone moving forward.

And yet, I do.

Because something holds me up.

That something is the love Greg planted while he was here.

It is in the courage he modeled without ever calling it courage.

It is in the kindness he offered without expectation.

It is in the way he believed in tomorrow, even when today was heavy.

His strength did not disappear when his body did.

It multiplied.

It became the resolve in his wife’s heart as she wakes each morning and keeps going.

It became the quiet bravery of a family learning how to live with an empty chair. It became the unseen that lifts us when sorrow presses hard against our chests.

Grief tells us we have lost everything.

Love tells a different story.

Love says: What was given cannot be taken.

Greg’s love is now part of who we are.

It steadies our hands.

It softens our fear.

It reminds us, again and again, that we were loved deeply, and therefore, we are not undone.

Greg will never see 2026.

There is no way to soften that sentence. It stands stark and unmovable, like a line drawn across time. A future he should have stepped into – a year he should have known – now belongs only to our imagining.

And so, as this year closes, I lean into what remains.

I lean into family.

I lean into Ben.

Ben’s strength does not announce itself. It does not demand attention or recognition. His strength is quiet, steady, and deeply anchored. He does not rush grief, his own or anyone else’s. He stands firm when everything else feels uncertain. He stays.

He carries sorrow with dignity.

He carries love with loyalty.

He carries responsibility without complaint.

In Ben, I see a strength that steadies rather than saves – one that absorbs the weight so others do not have to carry it alone. His presence reminds me that strength does not always speak; sometimes it shows up and holds the line.

I lean into Jayme, daughter of my heart, who steps forward when the weight is unbearable. She arrives not with answers, but with action. With loyalty. With love that does not flinch in the worst of times. She enters the hard places without hesitation, proving that family is not defined by ease, but by endurance.

This is how I survive knowing Greg’s timeline ended too soon.

I hold fast to those still here – not to replace what was lost, but to honor it. Greg’s love did not vanish with him; it flowed outward, strengthening the very people now holding me up. His life built something enduring, something strong enough to bear this ache.

As this year closes, I do not pretend to understand what comes next.

I do not pretend to be ready.

But I am still here.

And the future – though forever changed – is not empty.

It is filled with the quiet steadiness of a son who remains, the unwavering faithfulness of a daughter of my heart who does not turn away, and the unbreakable bond of a family learning – slowly, painfully, faithfully – how to keep going.

Greg may never see 2026.

But because of the love he gave,

because of the strength he left behind,

because of the family he helped shape, we will.

And as we step into a year he will not touch, we carry him with us – in how we love,

in how we endure,

and in how we choose, again and again, to keep living.

Copyright © Joy M. Mills 2025

MJM (TM)

He gave me this ornament in August, which is why it matters.

Christmas was never really his thing – too much, too loud, too expected. But that day,

in the ordinary warmth of late summer, he handed me something meant for a tree we weren’t even thinking about yet. “I saw this and thought of you.”

That was Greg. Not sentimental for its own sake, but thoughtful. Intentional. Choosing meaning over tradition.

Now the ornament lives differently. It no longer waits for December. It carries August light, a quiet moment, his hand placing it into mine.

This year, it isn’t about Christmas at all. It’s about his birthday. His first birthday in heaven.

A small ornament holding a great love – a son who gave a gift simply because he loved me.

Happy 1st birthday in heaven, Greg

Copyright (c) Joy M. Mills 2025

MJM (TM)

He moved through this world

with a spirit that refused to dim –

a man who found joy

in the tiniest corners of life,

and chased wonder

where most people never thought to look.

Books, history, distant places –

they weren’t hobbies to him,

they were lifelines.

Every page he turned,

every step he took across a new land,

lit him up from the inside

and reminded the rest of us

what it meant to be fully alive.

And family –

that was his anchor.

He loved with honesty,

with fire,

with a devotion that wrapped around us

like a warm blanket on the coldest nights.

His laughter gathered us close,

his tenderness steadied our storms,

his presence made us feel

like we belonged somewhere sacred.

Now the world feels quieter,

colors dimmer,

because a light like his

doesn’t just fade –

it leaves a shape in the air

where love used to stand.

But his love is still here,

woven into us,

into every memory he gave,

into every heartbeat that whispers his name.

A life fully lived.

A family deeply loved.

A legacy that will never fall away.

Copyright © Joy M. Mills 2025

MJM (TM)

I could never get him out of a bookstore.

Not ever.

Last summer we walked in “just for a minute,”

And stayed

And stayed

And stayed

Because the moment he stepped inside,

Something in him lit up.

It was like watching a sunrise break open right

In front of me.

He belonged there,

Among shelves leaning with stories,

Spines worn soft by hands

That also loved to wander.

Books weren’t things to him –

They were worlds.

He didn’t read them,

He entered them,

Crossed their thresholds

As if they were doorways built for him alone.

And outside those walls,

Nature called to him

With the same quiet devotion.

All of it –

The trees, the mountains,

The wild edges of the earth,

Even the ancient ruins

That time itself tries to guard.

He stood in places

Most people only dream of,

Places carved from centuries,

Stone holding secrets

That only hearts like his could hear.

He walked those paths

As if he already knew them,

As if he had stepped out of a history book

And found his way back home.

The stories he read

Came alive around him –

Not in imagination,

But in real time.

Greg didn’t just study the world;

He touched it,

Felt it,

Claimed his small piece of it

With wonder in his eyes

And courage in his steps.

He lived with a curiosity

That never dimmed,

A love for knowledge

That chased every sunset,

And a reverence for beauty

That made the world feel larger,

Brighter,

More meaningful.

And for me –

He was my north.

The direction my heart leaned toward,

The steady pull in my universe,

The compass I carried

Without even knowing I needed one.

And now –

Every bookstore,

Every quiet trail,

Every ruin washed in sun and shadow –

Holds a piece of him.

Because he walked there.

He breathed there.

He lived there

With a heart that wanted to know everything

And a spirit that refused

To stay small.

Copyright © Joy M. Mills 2025