Christian and I were married 17 years, together 19, with two wonderful kids. I miss how he made me laugh. We moved to Colorado for his hospital chaplain training—he loved it and was so good at it. He walked people through grief, in and out of the hospital, and often led funerals. In many ways, he was the grief expert. I think God was preparing me through his work. Christian is still my teacher; I remember what he said and did, and now I can do that for others.

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Christian died unexpectedly—a heart attack at 42. I was 38. The shock took a long time to fade, as it does with sudden loss. I remember seasons of the kids and me on the floor, sobbing, asking: How did this happen? What do we do now? It’s not fair for a child to lose a parent. What kept me up at night was not knowing how to put the pieces back together. People told me, “You’ll be okay,” but what I didn’t have—and what I love about Two Small Coins—was someone who had lived it telling me I’d be okay.

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I sensed a quiet whisper: you’ll use this to help people. I knew my grief would lead me to serve others, but I didn’t know how. Then I met my friend Jill, another widow. Through our conversations, we realized we wanted to help women like us. We were frustrated by the lack of practical help and resources—so we decided to create them.

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The people who love you show up in the hard beginning. Two Small Coins is there for the rest of the journey. We walk with you through whatever comes next. Your story isn’t over. God has more for you.

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Now I’m in ministry, leading a nonprofit, loving people—and it’s beautiful. In many ways, I’m continuing the work he started. That’s pretty cool.

It was the end of our junior year. Parker saw me across the lunchroom and told his mom, “I saw Sulli, and I want to marry her.” We got to know each other over the summer, started dating, and got married a couple months after we graduated high school. He was already in the Coast Guard.

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When we found out we were pregnant with Maverick, Parker was ecstatic—so excited to be a dad and so supportive of all my fears. We had Maverick, and about a month later he was stationed in San Diego. We lived near the beach. He surfed. We were doing really well.

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Boot camp was hard for me—the first time we were separated for more than a few days. We couldn’t talk, only write letters. I cried every day he was gone. And now, of course, this season has been the hardest.

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Even so, I have hope. He’s in a better place. He’s happy. I’ll see him again one day. It’s another time of being apart, but we’ll be together again. I can hold on to that.

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It’s hard to lose your favorite person—almost like losing part of yourself. Relearning how to live without him is hard.

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I remember before my first meeting, sitting in the car thinking, “Why am I doing this? I don’t want to sit with other sad women.” But it was a joyful experience. I didn’t even have to say anything—they knew the pain. Erin and Jill amaze me. They’ve walked through this and still help other widows. I hope I can do that one day. It’s inspiring.

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Community matters. We were made for fellowship. One Christmas, Erin brought a small stocking. It was simple and so kind—I felt known and seen. We’re not alone. We have people to guide us.

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Maverick has a whole life ahead of him. I do too. It’s brighter now.

I remember asking myself, “How am I going to do this alone?” Two Small Coins helped me see that I do have a future—that I’m not alone. My name is Tiesha Gibson Rock, and I lost my husband seven and a half years ago. He was an amazing friend, an amazing husband—an amazing person. He was diagnosed with bladder cancer in February 2015. It was a shock to both of us. In 2016, he went into remission. In 2017, the cancer returned with a vengeance. He passed away on December 28. It all happened so fast.
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They get it. Losing your spouse is different from any other loss—not to minimize anyone else’s grief, but when you lose your life partner, it’s a different kind of devastation. Other widows understand. They don’t compare or dismiss. I was grateful to find an organization that was close, local, and accessible—where I can reach out to Aaron whenever I need to.
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We’re all in different places, and no one judges anyone else’s journey. We can speak freely about what we want and what we need. The minute I walked in and sat down, I knew they were my people. That’s what Two Small Coins is for me.

Life was normal—the American dream. We had a house and our kids. The morning my husband died, we’d gone to a baseball game. We’d been married 18 years, almost 19. That day he started having chest pain around 3:00 p.m., and he passed at 8:48 p.m. It was very fast.

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I first connected with Two Small Coins the Christmas after I lost him in September 2022. A friend lost her husband two weeks before I did, and her mom arranged for both of us to receive stockings from Two Small Coins. In those first months, you’re so sad and disoriented you don’t know which way is up. That gift was a glimmer of hope. We couldn’t wait for Christmas—we opened them together as soon as they arrived.

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I didn’t know I could hurt this much. I didn’t know this level of pain was possible. Talking with someone who truly understands helps you feel seen and encouraged. Finding a community of widows has been life-giving—seeing women further along who are laughing again, embracing life, and embracing hope. That’s been the most encouraging part.

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You’re not strong enough to get through this—but God gives unbelievable strength you never thought possible. When widows come together, we can build new things, encourage each other, and be hopeful for the future.

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Two Small Coins helped me see hope in my future.

Christian and I were married 17 years—together for 19—and we have two wonderful kids. As a dad, Christian was fun and goofy. He was on the floor playing with the kids, wrestling, just having a great time with them.

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Hi, my name is Caroline Drez.

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And I’m Tyler Drez.

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Our mom is the co-founder of Two Small Coins.

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He was so happy and made everyone feel comfortable. I’m pretty sure he coached your T-ball team. He loved playing with you and all your friends.

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We grew a lot closer. We leaned on each other, and now we do everything together.

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She’s definitely grown—more outgoing, more confident as a mom, and better at talking to people. In every way, she’s stronger. She’s more efficient, and sometimes she tells me she’s more fearless.

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When I look to the future, I see myself prospering—still being myself and growing. No matter what happens, he’ll always be with us. And God will walk with us through everything we do.

It was unexpected. It was a normal Saturday. He’d just had a very routine surgery. I took our 13-year-old son to a friend’s house, and my husband called and said, “I don’t feel good. You need to come home.” I walked in and found him sitting in our half bath. That was Saturday. He passed on Tuesday from a pulmonary embolism—what they called a “saddle” embolism, with clots in each lung. Talk about a blow. Instantly, my life changed.

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Even so, I’ve always found joy in the little things. I could see God in those moments. I often wonder how people get through crises without believing in God. How do you grieve without hope?

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I know I’m going to see him again. That reunion will be beautiful. Without that belief, what would I cling to?

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When you leave a Two Small Coins event, your cup fills up and you feel joyful. You take that home, and it rolls out into your family. When you are hopeful and joyful, your kids feel hopeful and joyful. They don’t feel like they have to worry about you or take care of you.

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We want to give widows hope—hope that there is life after grief, life after death. You can have a joyful, happy life.

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Giving isn’t about charity; it’s about legacy. When you give to Two Small Coins, you help rebuild a family. Grief doesn’t affect just one person—it echoes through generations.

I was in a local coffee shop in Peachtree City working on emails when Aaron and Jill walked over and shared their heart for widows. This was before they officially launched and were still figuring out the how. James 1:27 talks about the kind of faith that honors God—caring for orphans and widows. As they spoke, it struck me: in our community, no one was specializing in this. There’s grief counseling, and people are doing great work, but widows need someone who has walked that road to come alongside them. Our community needed this. I was all in.

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Since then, I’ve watched God put more widows in my path to connect with Two Small Coins. At Southside, rather than create another ministry, we look for the organizations already doing it well and add momentum—through funding, time, people, and our platform—so they can thrive.

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My heart for this work keeps growing. When we give to Two Small Coins, we give hope. At last year’s stocking-stuffing party, Two Small Coins auctioned a beautiful Craftsman-style dollhouse. My wife said, “This would be perfect for my coworker.” She’s a widow with two little kids, and her late husband was a craftsman. Building that dollhouse together during what would be their hardest Christmas gave them a way to remember him.

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That’s what your giving does. When you give to Two Small Coins, you give hope—to those two little kids, to their mom—who may not know what’s ahead, but whose future will be better because of this ministry.