Light in the Ashes
- Dom Bortruex
- Feb 24
- 4 min read
The past two months were the darkest, most difficult time of my life. Following my husband Nick’s death, I faced uncertainty and unwelcomed change. My once clear course with my first mate was now a solo survival mission. Survival grew harder each day as the reality of his death set in. I noticed his absence in the big and little things. Worst of all, I found myself in a trauma cycle of lingering on Nick’s suffering -- the suffering that led to his death and his suffering at the end. This was punctuated with flashbacks of finding his body. I worried this darkness was extending to me and other survivors.
The darkness tried to snuff out Nick’s light & love. I wondered, why now? He survived so much, only to die when he finally found love, community, and some healing. God had plans for him & First Evangelical Lutheran Church. Nick’s connection and deep love mixed with First’s hospitality & passion were too much for the darkness to handle. To stop Nick’s light, and its impact on First and beyond, the darkness had to destroy that light -- a light that gave so many hope. How many people would lose hope as a result of this? Seems like a victory for the darkness.
But it’s darkest before dawn, and to appreciate the light, you have to have known darkness.
I shifted from this darkness & into an even brighter light when I put my ego aside, vulnerably shared my struggles, and asked for help. I was only able to do this because of Nick’s prior nagging about my self-sufficiency and inability to ask for or receive help despite giving it. My friends and church communities echoed this. They reminded me of the beatitudes, of how it was a blessing to give others the opportunity to help and be a blessing. Before, I felt frustrated and abandoned by God, but now I see the answer to my prayers was through the love and help of others, not from life insurance, IRA’s, or my self-sufficiency.
Then on Tuesday, February 24th, Nick’s friend Sharon treated me to an evening in NYC. Our rowdy adventures and exchange of memories brought Nick back to life. I remembered his almost 45 years of life, love, and hope. It was unfair and inaccurate to remember only his suffering. I could not let that darkness take both of our joy and hope.
I returned to Connecticut with hope, inspiration, and gratitude which increased upon hearing Pastor Chad’s Ash Wednesday sermon at Tabor Lutheran Church. His explanation of Lent as a time to compost and transform death into life reminded me of Nick. I decided to give up this obsession with suffering and replace it with the love and light Nick exhibited and is part of now.
This rejection of suffering gave me the energy to finally go out and celebrate life with Nick's friends, like Jordan and Kit, Jane, and Dinushka and Nikky, who are now my friends. We keep Nick alive for each other and transform the grief into love for each other and others.
I still grieve, but I no longer linger on Nick’s or my own suffering. Instead, I focus on his decades of love and light through deep darkness. All my suffering, anger, and confusion has turned into a righteous, raging fire that will make the darkness regret its attack on Nick.
So much light is coming from this. People across New England and beyond are connected and learning from this. I’ve had the opportunity to educate people on PTSD and trauma. Others have shared their personal struggles as caretakers and survivors. I shared Nick’s forgiveness with his estranged family with whom I now have a budding relationship. I have a relationship with his ex-in-laws. I am reconnected with my family, Church, and God.
These events, meant to keep me from God and life, transformed me and made my path clear. I have returned to my own pastoral call dating back to 10th grade. This call was delayed when I was rejected from churches for being queer even before I was “out”, but was also delayed by my own ego and arrogance. Stripped away of that, I am returning to this call. As I embark on the Divinity School and seminary process with intention to pursue ELCA ordination, I am dedicated to pastoral visits, volunteering, and various creative and technical side projects to make ends meet. I am building community with neighbors. I continue to learn about Nick through his friends and colleagues. I am making a new life while honoring the old one.
I truly believe what was meant for evil, God has worked for good. I hope my light from this inspires others and brings hope. Who else may find joy, healing, and purpose through this?
Thank you for sharing so vulnerably. You have a special gift of expression. Your writing touched me deeply, as I reflect on my own grief over Nick's death, and try to come to some understanding.
Thank you for sharing something so raw and sacred. Your honesty about the trauma, the anger, and the spiritual wrestling honors both Nick’s suffering and your own—and your decision to turn toward community instead of isolation is profoundly brave. The way you are choosing to remember his decades of love, rather than letting the final chapter define him, is a powerful act of defiance against the darkness. It’s clear that his light is not only still alive in you, but expanding outward—through reconciliation, through education, through your renewed call to ministry. Your story doesn’t minimize grief; it transforms it. And in doing so, it already is bringing hope.
Love Dad
Never forget that you have friends who are willing to be there for you, to help you. It is very hard for us to come up with the right words to say to someone who is grieving. We are not trained for this. We often say the wrong things in our fumbling for something right. But please know that I care deeply for you, and I will be there if you need me.