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My accountant had always been pleasant—strong-willed, yes, and definitely opinionated—but she was excellent at her trade, and we trusted her. One month after my husband passed away, I met with her to file our taxes. I had no reason to believe this appointment would be any different from previous appointments.

I was wrong.

Earlier that morning, I had met with my financial planner, trying to do what I never wanted to have to do—make major decisions alone. I walked into the accountant’s office already feeling the weight of responsibility, but feeling confident that I would receive wise counsel from her.

Instead, she began questioning my financial advisor’s advice and direction. What started as a professional disagreement quickly turned personal. Then she spoke the words that hit much deeper—comments implying my husband “knew nothing about investing.” My heart was crushed.

In that moment, it wasn’t just about finances and taxes.

It felt like a personal attack on the man who had always guided and protected me, the one who handled these types of things. The one I had trusted completely.

I left her office frustrated, confused, and shaken to my core.

By the time I got home that evening, I wasn’t just questioning financial decisions—I was questioning myself.

Can I really do this without Vic?
What if I make the wrong decision?
What if I’m not capable of handling life without my husband?

If I’m honest, I even got a little angry with God.

I told Him I wasn’t ready to do this alone and I needed more time with Vic. I needed my rock, the one who listened when I vented, who calmed me down, who could rationalize things when my emotions were spiraling.

And in that moment, all I wanted to do was pick up the phone and call someone, a pattern that I had relied on for most of my life.

But I couldn’t decide who I wanted to call.

Every name that came to mind had a reason not to call attached to it—

They’re busy.

I don’t want to burden them. What could they even do?

I hate calling to cry on someone’s shoulder.

And deep down, I knew something else was happening.

Three different devotions I had read that day all spoke to me loud and clear the same thing in different ways: that I needed to depend solely on God, not on people, to meet my needs.

I had been asking Him, “Lord, what does it look like to trust You as my husband now?”

I think that night was the beginning of my answer.

Vic was always my rock, the person I depended on when life got hard. Now I needed to depend on God to do that for me.

Instead of reaching for my phone, I felt the nudge to reach for my Bible. I didn’t even know where to turn. So I opened to the Psalms.

And Psalm after Psalm spoke of…

His faithfulness
His protection
His love
His promises to care for me

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.”
Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

“The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer.”
Psalm 18:2 (NIV)

“When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
Psalm 61:2 (NKJV)

The very things I missed most in Vic—stability, comfort, reassurance—I found described in the character of God.

That night, nothing around me changed.

The grief was still there.
The loss was still real.

But I was finally able to rest in His peace.

Over the years, I have slowly learned what it means to depend on God as my husband. That doesn’t mean I don’t need community. It doesn’t mean God doesn’t use people. But it does mean that the deepest place in my heart—the place that once belonged to my earthly husband—now belongs fully to the Lord.

And I can’t constantly fill that space with noise or reaching for others.

Sometimes God lovingly removes or limits our support systems—not to isolate us, but to teach us that He is enough.

It’s hard.
But His Word says He will never fail us.

“And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 4:19 (NIV)

Maybe you’ve had a moment like that—where you just wanted to call someone, anyone. Instead, maybe you’ve felt that nudge to run to Him first.

That is God inviting you to go deeper with Him.

An invitation to discover that the Rock you lost in your husband was always just a reflection of the true Rock who remains.

Father, thank you for being patient with us as we learn to lean fully on you. Remind us that you are closer than a phone call and always faithful to hear our cries. Amen.