I want to start off by saying that while I may not have known Ashley on a deeply personal level, the love, care, support, and faith she poured into my daughter is something I will never forget.
Some mornings divide a town into before and after. February 16th was one of those mornings.
In a small community, grief doesn’t stay contained. It moves through school hallways and church pews. It lingers in grocery store aisles and volleyball gyms. It sits heavy in homes that never imagined waking up to news like this.
A wife.
A mother.
A teacher.
A coach.
A woman who loved Jesus boldly.
And now we are learning how to grieve together.
When Tragedy Shakes Our Sense of Safety
For many of us, this loss didn’t just bring sorrow.
It brought shock.
Because this doesn’t happen here.
We live in a town where people recognize one another at the grocery store. Where children ride bikes in the neighborhood. Where routines feel predictable, and doors feel safe.
And when something violent breaks into that rhythm, it doesn’t only take a life.
It unsettles our sense of security.
You may have found yourself double-checking locks.
Watching your children a little more closely.
Feeling uneasy in ways you can’t fully explain.
That doesn’t make you dramatic.
It makes you human.
When tragedy strikes close to home, our nervous systems respond. We go on alert. We try to regain control over something that suddenly feels fragile.
It’s okay to acknowledge that.
Psalm 46:1 says, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
Refuge doesn’t mean nothing bad ever happens.
It means when it does, we are not without shelter.
And even in the shaking, one thing remains steady — the life she lived and the love she poured into this community.
Who She Was
As I’ve read story after story, one thing has become clear:
Ashley didn’t just talk about Jesus — she lived like Him.
She stayed late to tidy classrooms because the small things mattered. She laughed alongside other moms and daughters while doing the unseen work.
She stood in worship with her hands lifted high — not self-conscious, not hesitant — just loving Jesus with her whole heart.
She preached to children about grace being a free gift. Not earned. Not achieved. Freely given.
She greeted people personally. Thanked volunteers. Radiated warmth.
She didn’t see differences. She saw children of God.
And sometimes, she lived that love in quiet moments no one else saw.
One day, when my daughter was having a bad day, Ashley pulled her aside and prayed with her. No spotlight. No announcement. Just a coach who noticed a hurting middle school girl and invited Jesus into the moment.
There were lighter moments, too — conditioning days turned into yoga ball chaos when the other coach wasn’t there. Sneaking cookies in after being told they couldn’t have them. Laughter woven into discipline.
That was Ashley.
She cared deeply. She prayed boldly. And she made room for joy.
If the measure of a life is the love it leaves behind, hers was overflowing.
What Grief Does to Us
When someone who lived that way is suddenly gone, the ache feels sharp and confusing.
Grief is not tidy.
It doesn’t move in straight lines.
It doesn’t follow a schedule.
It doesn’t look the same for everyone.
Some people cry immediately.
Some feel numb.
Some feel angry.
Some feel anxious.
Some can’t sleep.
Some sleep constantly.
Some feel sick to their stomach.
Some struggle to concentrate.
Grief doesn’t just affect our hearts.
It settles in our bodies.
It tightens our chests.
It disrupts our routines.
It makes ordinary tasks feel overwhelming.
And none of those responses are wrong.
There is no “correct” timeline for grief.
There is no spiritual gold star for handling it quietly.
There is no formula for processing it perfectly.
We all carry loss differently.
And we carry it at different paces.
Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
That verse does not erase our tears. It promises we are not alone in them.
How Do We Process Something Like This?
There isn’t one right way — but there are healthy ways.
Talk about it.
Write about it.
Pray about it.
Sit quietly and let tears come.
Go for a walk.
Gather with friends and share memories.
Attend church even when you don’t feel like singing.
Processing grief doesn’t mean having answers. It means allowing yourself to feel what is real.
For some, that may mean asking hard questions.
For others, it may mean simply saying, “Lord, I don’t understand.”
Faith does not cancel grief. It gives it somewhere to rest.
And John 1:5 reminds us, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
Darkness may feel loud right now.
But it does not win.
Living With Grief — and Carrying the Flame
We don’t “get over” loss like this.
We move forward carrying it.
Some days will feel heavier than others.
Some moments will surprise you — a song, a gym, a Sunday morning worship set.
That doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you loved.
And maybe one of the most powerful ways to carry grief is to let it shape us — not into fear or bitterness, but into deeper compassion.
Ashley’s life was marked by bold faith, open hands, and intentional love.
We honor her best not only by remembering her, but by reflecting what she reflected.
Pray out loud.
Serve faithfully.
Stay late for the small things.
Notice the person who feels alone.
Worship freely.
Speak the name of Jesus with courage.
Live like Ashley.
Not perfectly.
Not performatively.
But sincerely.
A Prayer for Our Community
Lord, we don’t understand this loss. We don’t understand why. But we know You are near to the brokenhearted. Be near this community. Be near every family. Be near to those grieving loudly and those grieving quietly. Be near the ones who feel shaken and unsettled. Thank You for the gift of Ashley’s life. Thank You for the light she carried. Help us carry it forward. Teach us to love boldly. Serve faithfully. And reflect You clearly — even in sorrow. In Jesus’ name, Amen.