A while ago, as I drove a few hundred miles across the state, my mind was frequently drawn to those memorial markers on the sides of the road. You know those crosses that are planted in the ditches or near the road, where lives were ended and memories began? We all see them, often never giving them a second thought.

And I wondered, why do the bereaved (me included) do this? Why do they make markers in ditches, on trees and fences, shrubs, rocks and more? I thought to myself…how is that poor family? How do they handle the pain? Are they still stuck in deep grief and sorrow, covered in darkness? How has their life changed since their loss? Have they done anything else to honor their loved one? Do they visit the memorial? Most importantly, do they know God’s promises?

There were endless questions in my mind. So many markers and so many lives taken. The longer I drove, it seemed they were everywhere. I was acutely aware of them, as I should be.

About two hundred miles into my trip, I was caught off guard as I turned a corner and saw a family gathered together on the side of the road. It was a picturesque scene, like something out of a movie. At first glance, I thought they had a flat tire, however, due to the location being on a narrow corner as they stood in the gravel, I saw the cross and instantly knew.

My heart broke for them. I found myself wondering how they were coping, as I knew firsthand that familiar feeling and struggle of how painful it must be driving that stretch of road and returning to the place where their lives were shattered. The family had put up a cross, black with white writing, which also reminded me of a place where I don’t want to go. A place I have never returned to. Yet I wondered what ours looked like, as I’ve only seen it in pictures.

These markers aren’t just about where someone died, they’re about where we continue to grieve.

A couple of months ago, a text arrived from Hunter, my now adult son. While on a trip of his own, he stopped by our own memorial marker, where he and his sister shared their last moments, over seventeen years ago. He didn’t say much, just sent a photo and said he was going to replace everything tomorrow—the weathered bear, faded flowers.

My heart paused and my eyes welled with tears. Such a surreal feeling, still after all this time, that this is my life. My mind wandered, was this real? My heart answered, yes, it absolutely is.

Markers like these are stamps of time, forever dividing the lives of those whose hearts were shattered into a before and after. But the heart never forgets the bonds and love shared, they remain, untouched by time, eternal in their tenderness.

Lydia was only five. She loved her stuffed zebra Marty, bears and every color flower. Her roadside memorial is intact and a reminder that she was here. A beautiful life lost, yet always to be remembered.

Covered with stuffed animals and flowers for months after the accident, people wore their hearts on their sleeves as they took their own time to go and leave a token of remembrance, showing their love for a little girl. Part of that sits in my house-a little pink bear, tattered and torn by wind and rain, now perched on the shelf, a soft and sullen reminder of my first-born.

I asked myself if those families know God’s promises, do they have hope? Seventeen years later, I’m still learning to hold onto them myself, that love doesn’t end at a roadside cross, that memories are a treasure to behold, that grief and hope can coexist and our loved ones are absolutely rejoicing in heaven.

So the next time you are traveling and see a roadside memorial, take a moment to say a little prayer for that family and remember that to someone, that little cross means the world.

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