All That You Need

Grief reminds us what we’ve lost; love reminds us what we were given.

Grief comes—without warning, without asking permission.

It struck me when I kept walking past a pair of white tennis shoes I’d been meaning to bleach. Every time I passed them, I felt a quiet ache.

How did Granny Mae get white shoes so white?

Grief feels selfish sometimes. We mourn what we lost in a person, and I worried about how my mourning might land on others. I didn’t want to text and ask a question, only to feel the weight of what wasn’t there anymore.

In 2022, loss began stacking on loss.

My stepmother, Shirley Armstead, died that year.

My father, Wesley Curtis “Red” Armstead, would die later in 2023.

My brother, Corey Brian Armstead, thenext year in 2024.

And my Granny Mae—Sharon Louise Satterfield—died on June 18, 2024.

I couldn’t remember her secret ingredient.
Baking soda? Oxy Clean? Something else?

And then it hit me: everything is different now. The family that once filled my days is no longer gathered the same way. Grief is especially sharp when there’s no one nearby to help you remember—no one who knew your loved ones. I’m in a new town with nobody around who remembers.

I am grieving a part of myself, too.

Grief reminds me of all the pain I have carried in life—and also of the love that held me through it. I am so thankful that Granny Mae, Shirley, and my Dad held me in their love.

Granny Mae is my ex-husband’s mother—the woman who helped raise my children and raised me, too, starting when I was sixteen. Her life’s single mission was to pour love into her family and community. And she did.

The kids are grown now, and Granny Mae is no longer between us. I hesitated to ask my ex-husband, recognizing that I haven’t been supportive in his grief. But we are life friends, and Granny Mae is a big part of the bond we share. So I asked

“A little bit of bleach and sunshine,” he replied.

There was no sunshine that day. It was freezing. But her memory—and her simple remedy —warmed me.

Grief and joy arrived together.

Later, standing in my father’s house ready to bleach the shoes, I felt something else rise—quiet, steady, unquestioned. I knew I was loved. Protected. Kept.

Scripture says:

“A good person leaves an inheritance for their children’s children.”
—Proverbs 13:22

An inheritance isn’t only what’s handed down.
It’s what’s held steady.
It’s presence.
It’s provision.

I grew up wanting a daddy. Wanting someone to love me, protect me, provide for me, stand beside me when things went sideways.

When I was about fifteen, I called my Dad, who had been estranged from me, and asked him to come get me. I won’t tell the story of why we were estranged because what matters is this: without hesitation, he came.

And that was the beginning of us.

He showed up. He did not give up on me, and I didn’t give up on him.

That fulfillment lives inside me still. And it’s why grief feels the way it does now. Grief doesn’t mean something is missing—it means something mattered. It means love took root deep enough to leave an ache.

Today, my son texted me Scripture, and it felt like a quiet answer to that ache:

“God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.”
—2 Corinthians 9:8

All that you need.
Not all that you imagined.
Not all that you planned.
All that you need.

Grief tells me what I have lost.
Faith reminds me of what I have been given.

I am grieving, yes—but I am not empty.
I am standing in the inheritance of presence—of fathers and mothers who came, of memories held, of love that shaped me, of their wisdom, and the peace I carry today.

I carry it forward now—not just what I was given, but who I became because of it. This is what inheritance looks like.

Not the absence of sorrow, but the assurance beneath it.

The sunshine came out today after weeks of freezing cold.

I stood in it. I let it warm my face.
Even in grief, there is light.
Even in sorrow, there is enough.

All that you need.