The Deeper Redirection: Caught, Not Taught

Part Three of the Deeper Blessing, Deeper Healing Series

If you’ve ever felt lost in grief, this is for you.

Grief doesn’t ask for permission.
It arrives, suddenly or slowly,
and settles into places
you never thought it would reach.

It’s not just the absence of someone you love.
It’s the absence of the life
you imagined
with them.

The milestones you thought you’d share.
The everyday moments
that now feel hollow.

After Ivan passed,
I was lost in that absence.
The future we dreamed of
slipped through my hands,
and I couldn’t stop it.

We had imagined
raising our daughter together,
growing old side by side,
travelling the world,
but that life
was no longer ours.

Some days,
I felt like I was floating outside my body,
just trying to make it through.

There were moments
I didn’t want to be here.
The pain was too loud.
The silence even louder.

But in the quiet of those crumbling moments,
God whispered something that changed everything:

Redirection.
This too shall pass.

Not a booming voice.
Not a dramatic shift.
Just a gentle whisper,
barely audible, but clear enough to catch.

That word, redirection, began to root itself in my heart.
Not as a solution,
but as an invitation.

Looking back now,
I realise
it was never about returning to the life I lost.
It was about discovering the one still ahead,
one I hadn’t imagined,
but one God
had gently been preparing me for
all along.

Healing didn’t rush in like a flood.
It came like morning dew – soft, slow,
almost invisible at first.

It came in the form of
a tiny kick from Eden when I was at my lowest.
It came through a Christian therapist whose wisdom and compassion
met me right on time.

It came through Scripture I had read before,
but now it pulsed with new life.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

There’s a quiet truth in that verse.
God doesn’t always take us out of the valley,
but He joins us in it.
And His presence became my anchor.

Not long ago,
a close family member said:
“Some things are taught. Some things are caught.”

I think about that often.
How the most meaningful lessons
aren’t always explained, they’re lived.

Caught in the quiet ways people keep showing up.
Keep loving.
Keep going.
Even when it hurts.

I never set out to teach anyone how to grieve.

But I’ve learned that showing up
with my broken pieces,
my shaky hope,
my slow steps toward healing,
is a kind of teaching in itself.

It’s not a lecture.
It’s a life
lived in the open.
A story
someone might catch something from.

And isn’t that how Jesus loved?

Not only through sermons and parables,
but through presence.

Sitting with the hurting.
Seeking out the overlooked.
Kneeling beside the broken.

“If a man owns a hundred sheep,
and one of them wanders away,
will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills
and go to look for the one that wandered off?”
— Matthew 18:12

That verse felt personal
in my grief.

Because in my wandering,
in my pain,
I felt found.

Not because I was strong.
Not because I was doing well.
But because of grace.

I wasn’t forgotten in the crowd.
I was sought after.

And so are you.

Redirection, for me,
was walking forward with the plans we made together – without him.

Just weeks before he passed,
we talked about me moving in with family
for my pregnancy and Eden’s first year.

It was hard to say yes.
I didn’t want to be a burden.
But after he was gone,
it was the only way that made sense.

I honoured him through the decisions
that made no sense to others
but made perfect sense to me,
to us.

Queenstown was part of those plans.
We had talked about going after Eden was born.
So we went.

Our families joined us for her first birthday.
We returned to places Ivan and I had once been.

And I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t ache the whole trip.

Flying over Queenstown,
seeing the snow-capped mountains,
whispering through tears,
“I did it.”

Placing Eden in the Cookie Time car
where her dad once sat.

Riding the Skyline gondola,
at the top, inside the café,
we watched the luge chairlift glide past,
the same one Ivan and I rode
after we raced down the track.
But he almost crashed into the barrier.

He laughed as they told him off.
He was carefree, unapologetic,
like the rules never applied to him.

We had a lot in common,
but in this, we were opposites.
I measured every step. He ran free.
And somehow, that worked.

Grief and joy both showed up.
Neither asked permission.
But they made room for each other.

And then, Samoa.

He once texted me:
“Can we go to Samoa after baby?”

We went this year.
Not for a holiday.
But to support my dad and brother at their Saofa’i (chief bestowal).

Still, being there took me back.
Especially with Eunice beside me.
It felt like a meant-to-be moment.

Before we left, I prayed for something simple – cheap flights.
But God,
knowing what I truly needed,
gave me more.

As a solo parent,
planning a trip felt impossible,
the logistics, the timing, the uncertainty.
But God knew.

A quiet answer,
wrapped in grace:
A three-day stopover in Fiji,
where Ivan and I once honeymooned.

This time,
I walked those paths with Eden.
Not through nostalgia,
but through her wonder-filled eyes.

Flights that typically cost
$900–$1,000 NZD
dropped to $761.93 NZD round trip,
booked just one month before departure.

A gift wrapped in prayer.

And then, a second miracle.

I had hoped someone would come with me.
Just a quiet wish.
Unspoken
until after a seven-day fast
(seven days of prayer and surrender).

As the flight page loaded, I whispered,
“If it’s meant to be. It’ll be cheap.”

$545.53 NZD.
Round trip.
Booked 13 days before departure.

Two days later,
the price jumped back to over $1,000.
$1,293.33 to be exact.
I remember because I screenshot it.

I called Eunice.
We booked it.

Some would call it luck.
But I call it love: precise, quiet, intentional.
The kind only God could weave into place.

As we drove through the villages
Ivan once told me about,
Eunice shared the same stories.
The waterholes, the mischief, the simplicity.

And I saw it all,
not just in words
but in colour, shape, scent, and sound.

I finally understood the roots of his humility,
the life he lived beyond what I’d ever known.

I wish he had been there
so I could turn to him and say:
“I get it now.”

It wasn’t closure.
But it was something close.
A gentle turning
not away from him,
but toward what’s ahead.

With him in memory,
and God leading the way.

And along the way, the small mercies continued.

Three times
once in New Zealand,
once in Fiji,
again on our return.
Each time, I breathed a version of the same prayer:
“Lord, let us get through gently, quickly”
Just the quiet plea of a mother
travelling solo with a toddler,
a storm always close to the surface.
And each time,
God made a way.

In Auckland, a woman pulled me from the middle of a long line.
There were families ahead of me and behind me.
But she picked me.
Her name — same as mine.
And as she ushered us through, her supervisor called out,
“Go on break after this one.”
As if she was meant to catch me,
just before she left.

My mother-in-law said it’s normal for people with children.
And maybe it is.
But for me, in that moment,
it felt like grace: quiet, simple, and perfectly timed.

On the way back,
when Eunice had flown home five days ahead of us,
a Samoan man (not airport staff, just a fellow traveller)
stepped in to help me unfold Eden’s pram.
We’d waited for the plane to empty while she slept,
and in that small moment,
he made the weight a little lighter.
We passed through customs with small talk,
nothing grand,
but it felt like grace showing up again
in the quiet company of kindness.

And just before all that
on the way there, during our stopover in Fiji
before Eunice joined us
I met a Fijian man while trying to set up a SIM card at Digicel.

I needed to get cash out,
and he offered to watch my luggage while I stepped away.
His name?

Savaiinaea.
Ivan’s family name.

Spoken like any other introduction,
But in me, it echoed.
A quiet moment where time felt thin.
He couldn’t have known what it meant.
But I believe God did.

Another thread,
tucked into the fabric of this redirection.

Wherever this finds you
in the middle of sorrow,
in the slow walk of healing,
or even in a place of peace

I want to leave you with this:

“Because of the Lord’s great love
we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23

You are not forgotten.
Your pain is seen.
And there is still beauty
to be found.

Let this be your reminder:
Some of the most powerful truths
aren’t shouted.

They’re whispered.
Caught in quiet moments.
Lived
one day at a time.

Take heart.
Healing
isn’t the end of your story
it’s part of the redirection.

P.S.
I never planned to write a series, just to share pieces of my heart as they came.
If there’s ever a Part Four, it’ll be because something deeper stirs again.
Until then, I’m grateful you’re here.
May peace meet you in your own unfolding story.
If any of these pieces have moved you, feel free to share them with someone who might need them too.

Prayerfully yours,
Nancy