Have you ever felt like you are underwater? Like even the mere idea of breathing is difficult? I have. And in those moments, the only thing I had to hold onto was God.

If you’ve been reading my blog long enough you know I’ve spent the last six years dealing with, processing, and grieving so many things. Just when I thought the losses were too much, one more would hit me. Wave after wave. No chance to reach the surface. No chance to breathe.

Here’s a quick recap of my 2020: COVID-19. Death of my now ex-wife’s mother, Betty Stevens. We had to put our first family pet, Oreo, down due to cancer. Then, the icing on our grief cake? The death of our 13-year-old son, Jude Thomas-Andrew Class, who died from complications of a seizure disorder diagnosed a year-and-a-half earlier.

Talk about trauma. Loss. Grief. One piled on top of the other. If you think it’s hard to breathe underwater, try doing it through three deaths during a pandemic. It’s not something I wish on anyone. I won’t pretend my faith made it easy. It didn’t. There were nights I didn’t know what to say to God, so I said nothing. Other times I yelled, screamed, and cursed at God. How could he let this happen? There were mornings I got out of bed only because I didn’t know what else to do. But through all of it, God was there. Especially in the silence. Even when I couldn’t feel it. I knew. Jesus was still there.

Then, just as I’m getting my bearings two years after Jude’s death, my now ex-wife decides she’s done with our marriage. No conversation. Just done. She’ll tell you that’s true. It was her decision. And at the same time, I lost the one job I held longer than any other because I was doing something I loved: telling other people’s stories. Two weeks later, I was working at Gibson.

Now, looking at all that, you’d think I’d be bitter, cold, and distant. And yeah, for a while I was. But there were a few things that got me through it, like learning how to be and have emotionally healthy relationships, difficult conversations, and stick with it, even if I didn’t feel like it. And those things that helped me? They also ended abruptly without any advanced warning. What didn’t end was God still being there. He stayed with me. He always does.

But here’s what I see now: God provided more for me after the losses than he did when things were good. I don’t say that lightly. I say it because it’s true and because it still surprises me. Dad told me years after my brother James died in 1991, God used the grief as a blessing for so many things. And I get it! Today I have solid relationships built on trust and understanding. And guess what? When things get hard, and they always do, we talk through it. With expectations clarified, with feelings acknowledged and hurts apologized for, we get to start over, love each other, and keep moving forward. That’s worth the difficult conversations. I wonder. Is that God showing off just for me?

Those who chose to exit missed seeing any of it. It took me a long time to figure out what I did to make those people pull away, the ones who went silent without explanation. What in the heck did I do wrong? I used to think it was all me. But now I understand.

A difficult and maybe tense conversation could’ve repaired numerous relationships. Relationships I thought were worth it.

Today they are missing out. It’s that simple.

The version of me that stopped reacting. The man who figured out that a hard conversation is worth so much more than a ghosted exit. I learned that integrity is what you do when no one is watching, when no one is paying attention. God is always watching. And that changed everything about how I show up.

They are missing Alissa. What it looks like when two people choose each other with honesty, integrity, clarified expectations, and managed emotions. What it looks like when two people choose each other on purpose, out loud, in front of witnesses. And mean every single word of it. That kind of love doesn’t happen by accident. We prayed for it. God answered.

Some of them missed out on Pretzel June. Honestly, that might be their greatest loss.

They are missing the writing. The blog. The book I’m writing. The slow, stubborn accumulation of a voice that took decades to find. And, like it or not, isn’t going anywhere. A voice, I believe, God gave me for a reason.

Real gratitude, not the greeting card kind, comes because of the people who hurt you the most. Because you remember that feeling. It sticks with you and won’t go away. And you don’t want anyone else to feel like you did in that moment. That’s not my goodness. That’s God’s. He took what broke me and made it into something I can give away.

All that to say how grateful I am. For all of it. What was lost. What was gained. The relationships I had and the ones I am making space for and building today. None of it happens without God in the middle of it.

You missed out on an imperfect person.

You missed out on a real one.

And the God who made him.

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