Grief has a way of sitting quietly in the corners of our lives, waiting for moments when we least expect it. It returns in the silence of a room, in the echo of a remembered voice, in the gentle unfolding of a memory that feels both warm and unbearable. It has been five months since you left this world, Rev. Dr. Jessica Louise Hughes, and still, the weight of your absence does not feel real. December 8th, 2025, is a date that refuses to settle gently in my heart. It stands there, sharp and unmoving, like a line drawn between what was and what will never be again. Even now, I find myself asking questions that have no answers. How do I mourn you? How do I say goodbye to someone who never truly feels gone?

I sit back often and allow myself to remember you, not as a figure defined by loss, but as a life that overflowed with presence, warmth, wisdom, and love. Memory becomes my way of holding on to you. It is where you still speak, still laugh, still guide, still listen. In these memories, you are not distant. You are near. And perhaps that is where mourning begins—not only in tears, but in remembering well.

I think back to the first time our paths crossed at Uganda Christian University. I did not yet know how deeply you would shape my life. I did not know that in that season of training for ordination, God was placing in my life not just a teacher, but a mother, a mentor, a friend. You were not distant in your authority. You did not stand far away, observing from a place of formality. You stepped close. You saw me. You reached out. You called the archdeacon of the School of Theology and Divinity, not as a routine act, but as someone already invested in the journey of another.

That is who you were. You noticed people. You did not pass by lives without entering them. You did not teach from a distance; you taught from within relationship. You made space for others to become.

You became my Ssenga, a role that cannot be reduced to a simple word. It carries culture, care, wisdom, guidance, and deep affection. In you, I found a place of belonging that felt both sacred and natural. You walked into my life and took up that space with such grace that I never had to question whether I mattered to you. I knew. I felt it in your words, in your presence, in the way you listened.

I remember how I confided in you. There are conversations that remain etched in my heart, not because of the exact words spoken, but because of how safe I felt in your presence. You had a way of listening that made burdens lighter. You did not rush to speak. You allowed silence to breathe. And when you finally spoke, your words carried both truth and tenderness.

You counseled me in moments when I did not know what direction to take. You steadied me when I felt uncertain. You guided me without controlling me. That balance is rare. You respected my journey, even as you gently shaped it.

March 2019 remains one of those moments where your presence felt especially profound. My traditional marriage was not just a cultural event; it was a deeply personal and spiritual transition. And there you were, my Ssenga, standing with me, guiding me, supporting me, covering me with wisdom and care. You did not simply attend; you participated with your whole heart. You carried that role with dignity and love, ensuring that I stepped into that new chapter with confidence and understanding.

Even now, when I think about that day, I see you. I hear your voice. I feel your presence. It is one of the many ways you remain woven into my life story.

But grief has its own language, and sometimes it is not clear. Sometimes it comes as confusion. Sometimes as silence. Sometimes as a question that lingers: how do I mourn you, Ssenga? I find myself caught between celebration and sorrow. I want to honor you, to rejoice in the life you lived, yet my heart aches because I cannot call you, cannot sit with you, cannot hear your voice again in this life.

There is a kind of shock that does not fade quickly. It lingers, not because we do not understand death, but because love resists separation. Love insists that the person should still be here. Love remembers too well. And so, even five months later, it feels as though part of me is still waiting for something that will not happen—a message, a call, a meeting.

Grief is not something I have mastered. It is something I am learning to walk through, slowly, unevenly. There are days when I feel strong, when I can speak of you with a smile, when I can celebrate your life with gratitude. And there are days when the loss feels fresh again, when tears come without warning, when I simply miss you.

I miss you, Ssenga.

I miss your guidance.

I miss your presence.

I miss the way you understood things without needing long explanations.

I miss knowing that I could come to you.

And yet, even in this missing, there is something sacred. Because to miss you is to remember you. To remember you is to keep alive the impact you had on my life.

You were only 55 years young, and yet the fullness of your life cannot be measured in years. Some lives stretch far beyond their time on earth, not because of length, but because of depth. You lived deeply. You loved deeply. You gave yourself to others in ways that continue to bear fruit even now.

Your life was a testimony, not just in words, but in action. You embodied what it means to walk faithfully, to serve others, to lead with humility, and to love without holding back. You were not perfect, but you were present. And sometimes, presence is the most powerful gift one can offer.

There is a verse that keeps returning to my heart as I think of you: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” These words feel like a fitting reflection of your life. You fought your fight with courage. You ran your race with endurance. You kept your faith with integrity.

And now, you rest.

There is comfort in believing that your journey did not end in loss, but in fulfillment. That the same God you served faithfully has received you into His presence. That where you are now, there is no pain, no struggle, no weariness—only peace.

Still, for those of us who remain, the absence is real. The space you occupied cannot be filled by another. You were uniquely you. And that uniqueness is what we grieve.

But perhaps mourning is not about finding a perfect way to say goodbye. Perhaps it is about learning to carry love in a new way. To hold on without holding back. To remember without being consumed. To celebrate even while we ache.

So today, I choose to celebrate you.

I celebrate the teacher who shaped minds and hearts.

I celebrate the mentor who guided with wisdom and grace.

I celebrate the friend who stood close in both joy and struggle.

I celebrate the Ssenga who walked with me in one of the most important moments of my life.

I celebrate the woman who saw me, believed in me, and invested in me.

And even as I celebrate, I allow myself to grieve. Because both are necessary. Both are part of honoring you fully.

Dear Ssenga, I do not know if there is a perfect way to mourn you. But I know that I will not forget you. I will carry your words, your lessons, your love. I will carry the parts of me that you helped shape. In that way, you remain.

You remain in the way I speak to others with kindness.

You remain in the way I listen.

You remain in the way I guide those who come after me.

You remain in the way I walk my journey of faith.

And perhaps that is the quiet miracle of a life well lived—that it does not end, but continues in the lives it has touched.

I miss you, Ssenga. Deeply. Truly. But I also thank God for you. For every moment, every word, every memory.

Goodnight Ssenga Jessica. I will see you in the morning

Rest well, Rev. Dr. Jessica Louise Hughes.

You are loved. You are remembered. And you will never be forgotten.