10/01/2026
THE SECOND OAR
For more than fifty years, an old man and his wife spent their summers at a little cabin beside a lake.
Every evening before sunset, they climbed into an old wooden rowboat.
He sat on one side.
She sat on the other.
Two oars.
Two people.
One boat.
They rarely went anywhere in particular.
Sometimes they talked.
Sometimes they laughed.
Sometimes they simply floated while the sun disappeared behind the trees.
Then one winter…
his wife died.
When summer returned, the old man went back to the cabin alone.
For weeks, he never touched the boat.
He would walk down to the dock each evening, sit beside it, and watch the sunset.
But he couldn’t bring himself to climb in.
Then one evening, he finally did.
He placed his oar in the water.
And without thinking…
he reached for hers.
His hand stopped.
For fifty years, that oar had belonged to the person sitting across from him.
Now there was only an empty seat.
He began to cry.
Eventually, he picked up his own oar and tried to row.
But with only one oar in the water, the boat began turning in circles.
Again and again.
He rowed harder.
The boat spun faster.
Frustrated, he finally stopped.
He lowered his head and whispered,
“I don’t know how to do this without you.”
From the dock, his granddaughter had been watching.
She climbed into a small canoe and paddled toward him.
When she reached his boat, she asked,
“Grandpa, why are you going in circles?”
He looked at the empty seat.
“Because for fifty years, your grandmother rowed the other side.”
His granddaughter looked at the second oar lying quietly in the boat.
Then she said something he would never forget.
“Grandpa…
maybe you aren’t supposed to leave Grandma’s oar behind.
Maybe you just have to learn a new way to carry it.”
The old man looked at her.
She showed him how to place both oars into the oarlocks.
One in each hand.
It felt awkward.
Wrong, almost.
For fifty years, there had been another pair of hands there.
But slowly…
he pulled.
Then again.
The boat moved forward.
Not quickly.
Not gracefully.
But forward.
He stopped rowing and looked at the empty seat.
“I still wish she were here.”
His granddaughter reached across the water and touched the side of his boat.
“I know.”
He looked at the oar that had once been hers.
“So do I leave this in?”
She smiled.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because it still helps carry you.”
The old man began rowing again.
And this time, the boat didn’t turn in circles.
As the sun disappeared behind the trees, something happened that surprised him.
He smiled.
Then immediately felt guilty.
How could something still be beautiful when she wasn’t there to see it?
But then he remembered how many sunsets she had loved.
And he could almost hear her saying:
“Don’t miss this one because you’re missing me.”
So he watched.
He cried.
And he smiled.
All at the same time.
Because grief is strange that way.
It can break your heart…
while love is still holding the pieces.
When we lose someone we love, people sometimes tell us we have to “move on.”
But maybe that’s not quite right.
How do you move on from someone who helped make you who you are?
How do you leave behind a voice you can still hear in your memory?
A laugh you would recognize anywhere?
A hand you can almost remember holding?
You don’t.
You move forward.
And there is a difference.
Moving on sounds like leaving something behind.
Moving forward means learning how to carry it.
At first, grief may send us in circles.
We wake up and remember.
We reach for the phone.
We expect to hear the door.
We see something funny and, for one beautiful second, forget that we cannot tell them.
Then we remember again.
And the boat turns.
There is no timetable for learning to row differently.
There is no day when loving them becomes unnecessary.
But slowly…
we learn.
We carry their sayings.
Their recipes.
Their stories.
Their ridiculous jokes.
Their lessons.
Their faith.
The things they taught us.
The way they loved us.
And eventually we discover something:
Their hands may no longer be on the oar…
but their love is still helping move the boat.
❤️ TODAY’S MISSION
If you’re grieving someone tonight, don’t ask yourself to leave them behind.
Speak their name.
Tell their story.
Make their recipe.
Play their song.
Look at the photograph.
Laugh at the memory.
Cry when you need to.
And when joy unexpectedly finds you again…
please don’t feel guilty for letting it in.
Your laughter does not mean you have forgotten them.
Your good day does not betray them.
Your life continuing does not diminish theirs.
Perhaps one of the greatest ways we honor someone we love…
is by carrying forward what they placed inside us.
Their kindness.
Their courage.
Their humor.
Their faith.
Their love.
So when tomorrow comes…
pick up both oars.
You may still cry while you row.
That’s okay.
You may stop sometimes.
That’s okay too.
Just don’t believe that moving forward means you’re moving farther away from them.
Because some people become so deeply woven into us…
that every step forward carries something of them with it.
And perhaps that’s why love survives death.
The chair may be empty.
The voice may be quiet.
The hands may be gone.
But the oar is still in the boat.
So when you’re ready…
row.
Not away from them.
Forward with them.
One pull at a time.
One day at a time.
One beautiful sunset at a time.
And trust that God understands the days when all you can do is float.
Mission Forward Always. ❤️
