Guest Blog by Rylee Webb

Rylee Webb

A Daughter’s Journey Through Grief and Light by Rylee Webb

Grief. It is a universal language, spoken in hushed tones and felt in the deepest chambers of our hearts. It connects us all, yes, but so do kindness, compassion, gratitude, and love.

I learned this truth in the most brutal way imaginable when my dad, Jeffrey Alan Webb, left this earth on December 18, 2021, at a mere 50 years old. They say the unfortunate hope for every parent is to precede their child in death. Most people expect to lose their parents eventually, but I never imagined I'd be 22, my younger sister just weeks shy of her sweet sixteen, and our mom a widow at only 42.

We’re familiar with the five stages of grief, a surface-level roadmap, if you will. In fact, you might cycle through them all in a matter of moments, minutes, days, weeks, or months. But what's less talked about, what truly guts you, is the immediate aftermath. That hollow feeling walking out of the hospital. The mental numbness as your mind grapples with the unthinkable, and physical numbness as your face, raw from tears, remains unaffected by even the biting December air. The blur of days, time losing all meaning, as a myriad of people drift in and out of your empty home. Then comes the fever dream of planning a service: who will speak, which photos to choose, what he would wear, what coffin would be his final resting place, what kind of vault would protect it, and what would his headstone look like. This is a dream, right?

Then comes the recurring heartbreak each morning, a brutal reminder as you say out loud, “No, this isn't a dream.”

Grief swallows your reality whole, again and again. I'm sure it can be categorized and then organized into one or several of the stages, but it felt, and still feels, utterly unorganizable, refusing to fit any neat box.

They say grief changes you, but you don't truly understand that until it's your own heart shattered. Only then did I grasp why, for some, that change can be negative. Why do some turn to unhealthy coping mechanisms? Why do people become heartless or cruel, mirroring the cruelty the world has shown them?

For me, anger became my constant companion. I was furious he was gone, that I couldn't call him anymore, livid I wouldn’t hear his laugh again, enraged by the life experiences he would miss. How could the world do this? He hadn't done anything to deserve it, and neither had we. I'd like to say that anger softened over time, but truthfully, my other emotions just grew bigger around it, enveloping it.

These raw, deep emotions were a revelation, not only to the stark reality of mortality but to the shocking number of others around me who had experienced similar losses. It deepened my compassion and gratitude for life itself, and for those around me, known and unknown. It ignited a fierce fire within me, a burning desire to ensure my kind, sweet, strong, and loving dad would be remembered.

Jeffery Webb

He touched so many lives in our community through his coaching of youth softball as my sister and I were growing up. Even though I no longer live where we grew up, I want to make a difference in my community; I want people to know his name. My dad deserves that, at the very least, for his profound impact on this world and on us.

I heard of Wind Phones, or Telephones of the Wind, before my dad's passing, but they came back to me years later with a sudden urgency. The idea, conceived by Itaru Sasaki, is simple: a disconnected phone that you can pick up, speak to your loved one,

and let the wind carry your words to them. I learned there were none near me, which fueled my drive to create change in my area. Surely, I couldn't be the only one in this town grieving someone.

This led me to a volunteer board actively developing an 80-acre park nearby. They listened to my story with open hearts and embraced the idea of placing a Wind Phone in their park in my dad's memory. This moment opened doors for another park, a grief support organization, and even a local commission on aging, all of which wanted to set up their own Wind Phones to improve accessibility. Watching this project bloom and grow into something far bigger than I ever imagined only fed that fire more.

Several months later, hiking with my younger sister in northern Michigan, showing her the breathtaking views that made me fall in love with this amazing state, we stumbled upon Wesley's Charm at Miners Falls. Miners Falls had completely slipped my mind, but we decided on a last-minute detour on our way to Miners Castle, and there it was. Touched by the message and excited to place Wesley’s charm in a new location, we continued our journey. As we drove to our next stop, my sister realized Wesley’s angel date: December 18, 2022. Exactly one year after our dad.

We had a brief discussion about whether it was a sign from Dad, and I decided to share our story via email about Wesley’s charm. This led to a very kind offer from Mr. Hogan Hilling, Wesley’s dad: 10 charms for our dad, Jeffrey, and an invitation to write this essay. Another moment where sharing our story became bigger than we intended, feeding that fire once more. Another sign that grief connects us is that kindness, compassion, gratitude, and love do as well.

The Webb Family

Through my grief and healing, I want to spread those very things that connect us all in this cruel world. I hope that by reading this, it may bring you, the reader, some sort of peace, comfort, or whatever you may seek.

For even though this world is cruel, I will remain as soft and kind as my dad’s eyes when he smiled.