I’ve driven past it countless times, but I hadn’t noticed it until that day. I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if not for the activity: a young mother and father had pulled their truck into the tall grass. The vehicle was slanted and eschew on the side of a steep incline. The hazard lights are probably what caught my eye. The woman laboriously pushed a lawn mower through the intruding vegetation as she created a freshly cut border around it. They both moved quickly and full of focused purpose.

On the side of a twisty road, in the midst of roller coaster-like hills was a baby blue cross peeking out of the high grass. There’s no shoulder and no safe or convenient place to pull over. With a speed limit of 75 MPH it’s no wonder there aren’t more roadside memorials on this dangerous stretch of pavement.

We’ve all passed them... roadside memorials — they represent the site of great loss. Something died here. Something precious. Something loved and fiercely protected. In the split second it took my car to zoom past the scene a flurry of emotions and thoughts rushed through me. I finally had a picture for how I felt. I hadn’t been able to put into words the things which regularly stole my breath from me. Not until now. Seeing these grieving parents tend to their son’s memorial completed the painting only once sketched out in my mind.

Jay and I loved adventures — even when we couldn’t venture far. We lived in a small county, but we frequently drove to Houston and found something new and exciting to do. An interesting restaurant, a fun coffee shop, even unique hotels… we loved to explore. Most of the 15 years we were married Jay worked in Houston. Before the kids started school I would drive them up to have lunch with daddy or meet him after work for a fun outing. Jay and I would carve out a night every few months and sneak away to a luxurious hotel. Our adventures took us all over our county, Houston, and beyond. We went on cruises, road trips… we even went on some motorcycle trips!

I’m such a visual person and when I go somewhere I’m always looking at the landmarks. I have distinct memories of each place we visited. I’ve lived in the same county my entire life… 4 years of friendship and 15 years of marriage… I see memories everywhere I go. No one ever talks about what you’re supposed to do with the good memories you still have after being severely betrayed. My marriage wasn’t horrible. We had a lot of really great times together. The only thing tainting these memories is the sense of complete loss. It mostly happens when I’m driving — I’ll pass a place where Jay and I have been: a place I once had a fond memory of. Then it happens, I’m abruptly hit in the face with a singular thought: “Something I loved died here.”

Each landmark, area of town, and destination I passed I was confronted with the same feeling I felt when I saw that little blue cross. I have roadside memorials in a million places. I’ve got crosses in New York, Hawaii, San Antonio… I even have them in my own home. Sometimes I still feel like I can’t escape them. Some of them aren’t as hard to drive by, but some of them? A few are so difficult that I’ve been tempted to drive 20 miles out of my way just to avoid them.

While I was still struggling through the raw parts of divorce I made a difficult choice in regard to these painful roadside memorials: I chose not to divert my eyes or my route when I encountered them. Y’all… it was so hard. But I knew if I didn’t face them it would always be hard. I knew I had a long road of healing in front of me and I didn’t want to prolong that healing by avoiding my memories and feelings. It would’ve been easy to say, “I can’t go. It’s too painful.” or “If I drive past that place I’m going to lose it.”

So what do you do with these emotional versions of a roadside memorial? Do you allow the hurt to overtake you? Do you pretend they aren’t there? I want to ask you to do a tough thing: acknowledge the memorials you pass. Acknowledge them when they grip tightly around your chest. Acknowledge them when they jab you with a throat punch. (It always comes when you least expect it. So take the hit like the tough ol’ bird you are.) When the throbbing subsides and the bleeding stops it’s time to breathe. Remind yourself of the new memories you’ll make. Remind yourself it won’t always hurt this much to drive by these crosses where something you once loved died. Remind yourself God has a good plan for you… a plan which includes a joyful, healthy life. Because you can’t make new memories if you live in the past. That life you once lived might be over, but new life is waiting to spring out of you.

Three years have passed since my old life was laid to rest. I still drive by roadside memorials all the time. I’m not gonna lie: some of them still knock me on my rear. But I get right back up, defiantly tilt my chin upwards, and keep moving forward. With each passing year it becomes easier and easier to acknowledge the memories. The little Jay and Elise crosses I pass have become a strange measuring stick for how much life I have lived since. I look at the places I’ve gone, the memories I’ve made, the strides I’ve taken, and I see a good life; a new life… full of promise.