For years, I dreamed of publishing a book. Every day, I poured my heart into writing—devotionals, blog posts, and social media reflections—hoping that one day I would finally share that dream with the world.
And always, right beside me, was my best friend and ministry partner, Shawna. She didn’t just support my calling—she magnified it. We did life together in the truest sense. We were partners in ministry, in business, and in the Word. Together, we walked with women through heartbreak, fear, healing, and the deep work of becoming healthy from the inside out.
Then, Shawna went to sit at the feet of Jesus.
Heaven was her ultimate goal—but the beauty of her destination didn’t soften the weight of losing her here. My heart was shattered. I didn’t just lose a friend. I lost my partner, my encourager, and my steady place in a world that suddenly felt so uncertain.
In the months that followed, I was simply trying to survive. Grief felt too heavy to carry, so I avoided it the only way I knew how. I stayed busy. I distracted myself. But in the process, I also stopped writing. I stopped studying the Word. I stopped helping others.
I tried to outrun the silence.
But grief has a way of finding you, no matter how fast you run. And when it does, it invites you—not gently—back to the places you tried to avoid.
During this time, my life became a cascade of crises until I finally reached a breaking point. That’s when my therapist asked me a question that would quietly change everything:
“What did you and Shawna do together that you can now do on your own and how might that be part of honoring her?”
That question took root deep in my heart. I wanted to honor her. But if I'm being completely honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to step back into a life we had always shared together.
Finding My Nineveh
Slowly, I began to understand something: I wasn’t just grieving Shawna… I was running from the place God was trying to meet me.
In Scripture, Jonah was called to go to Nineveh—a place of obedience, healing, and confrontation with truth. But instead, he boarded a ship headed for Tarshish, the opposite direction.
And I realized… I had done the same thing.
Grief was my Nineveh. It was the place I needed to go—to sit with the sadness, let the ugly tears fall, and allow healing to do its slow, painstaking work.
But who willingly walks toward pain?
Not me.
So I did what Jonah did: I ran. I bought a ticket to “Anywhere But Reality”.
But eventually, the running stops working. It doesn’t heal you; it just wears you out.
And slowly, I began to see that Shawna’s legacy wasn’t something I could honor by avoiding pain or pretending I was fine. It wasn’t found in staying busy enough to outrun grief. It was found in something much quieter—and much harder: presence, honesty, and healing.
It was learning how to walk forward when the person you used to walk with is no longer beside you.
So, I stopped running toward Tarshish. Not all at once and definitely not perfectly.
I started to understand that honoring Shawna’s legacy wasn’t about replacing what we had—it was about continuing the heart of it: walking with people through hard seasons, holding space for pain, and trusting that YHWH meets us even in what feels unfinished.
This is my story. It is a story of loss, yes—but also of grace, healing, and the slow, sacred work of learning how to stand again after everything had changed. It is about doing something powerful with what she taught me, using the unique gifts YHWH has given me.
Shawna’s life still echoes through mine—in the way I love people, in the words I write, and in the grace I try to extend to others who are walking through hard seasons. Maybe honoring someone’s legacy isn’t about moving on. Maybe it’s about carrying forward the light they left behind.
And maybe some of us need to stop running to Tarshish long enough to let God meet us in our Nineveh.
Have you ever found yourself buying a ticket to Tarshish to avoid a hard reality in your own life?