Some days, the emptiness feels overwhelming. I trust God, yet I remain human. I grieve. I long for what might have been. I know death does not have the final word and that Jesus conquered the grave, but faith does not erase the ache. It gives me permission to bring my brokenness honestly before God. Scripture reminds me, “See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19). I hold onto that promise, even when I cannot yet see the new thing

Hope did not arrive for me as something bright or immediate. It came slowly, almost imperceptibly, shaped by loss, memory, and faith. It did not erase grief, nor did it demand that I move past it. Instead, hope learned how to live alongside sorrow, breathing gently in the spaces where pain once felt overwhelming.Hope has taught me to trust what is unfolding, even when I do not yet recognize its shape. To believe that God is at work not only in what is restored, but in what is

Motherhood taught me patience I did not know I had. It invited me to notice beauty in small, ordinary moments, a tiny hand holding mine, a laugh that could fill an entire room. It shaped me with humility and showed me how deeply a heart can stretch when rooted in love. Now, decades later, my firstborn is a mother herself to two beautiful little girls. They have been, and continue to be, sources of deep joy and steady light, especially on days when life and grief feel overwhel

It feels like everyone is tired right now. Not just physically, but soul-tired—the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much for too long without a safe place to set it down. In 2026, this isn’t the exception; it’s the shared human experience. Grief, anxiety, illness, uncertainty, loneliness—these weights aren’t always visible, but they are felt deeply.

Stepping forward is not about forgetting the past or pretending that pain doesn’t exist. For those of us who have walked through grief, loss, or difficult seasons, moving forward is a delicate balance of honoring what has been while opening ourselves to what can be. It’s the recognition that while we cannot change what has already happened, we can choose how we respond to it, how we let it shape us, and how we carry it with grace rather than allowing it to weigh us down.

Advent becomes the spiritual framework for this slower, more intentional season. Rather than skipping ahead to joy, Advent asks for waiting,sitting with longing, expectation, and hope. This reflects on how the Christian story itself unfolds this way: before celebration, there was darkness; before joy, there was waiting; before the birth of Christ, there was love preparing to arrive. Christmas, at its core, is not about perfection or excess but about God choosing closeness,ent

The reflection closes with a deeply personal truth: joy is felt in time spent with family, even as absence is felt more sharply. Loving one child does not replace loving another. One presence does not erase another’s absence. This Advent, both grief and joy are held together—yearning for what is missing while making new memories with those who remain. This is the heart of the message: joy and grief can coexist. Love is large enough to hold them both.

December feels heavier when grief walks with us. Advent reminds us that peace doesn’t erase pain—it grows slowly, quietly, alongside it. Read my reflection on finding hope, love, and presence during this season.

Grief teaches us how to see the world differently. It softens us, reshapes us, and calls us to live with a deeper awareness of what matters. Gratitude, surprisingly, grows in the same soil. They seem like opposites, yet they lean into each other. Gratitude doesn’t erase grief; grief doesn’t smother gratitude. Somehow, they make room for one another. I felt both intensely, joy as I watched my grandchildren create new memories, and sorrow as the empty spaces reminded me of the

From the moment we boarded, reminders of my son Kevin surfaced in the gentlest and most unexpected ways. Our room steward also named Kevin and suddenly we found ourselves saying Kevin’s name over and over throughout the trip. At first it felt jarring, but then something softened. We couldn’t avoid speaking his name, even if we wanted to. Maybe God knew this was the one place where we needed to say “Kevin” without fear, without stumbling, without apologizing. Even my daughter

But reframing isn’t easy for everyone—especially for those who struggle with depression, like Kevin did. Depression is invisible but powerful. It lies. It whispers: You’re worthless. You’re a burden. You don’t matter. Grief, like depression, also distorts thinking. After losing Kevin, my thoughts were full of what-ifs and should-haves. What if I had done more? Should I have seen something different? Why didn’t I save him? These thoughts feel true, but they are grief’s attempt

We spend so much of our lives worrying. Replaying what happened, what could have been, or what might still go wrong. When my son Kevin was struggling with depression, I worried myself sick trying to anticipate outcomes — as if I could somehow protect him through my thoughts alone. But worry never saved him. It only exhausted my heart. The word worry comes from the Old English wyrgan, meaning “to strangle.” And that’s precise what it does — it strangles our peace, when we fixa

When we experience a deep loss, our first question is often why? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why them, why now, why me? Those questions mark the beginning of grief. But eventually, another question emerges: Now what? That question points us toward integration—the lifelong process of learning to live with loss and allowing it to shape who we become. Integration takes time and patience. It means accepting that your grief will always be part of you, but it can coexi

Why do bad things happen to good people? It’s one of life’s most difficult and enduring questions—one that touches the heart of every person who has ever experienced loss, pain, or injustice. When tragedy strikes, we naturally ask, “Why me?” or “Why would a loving God allow this?” This blog post explores those profound questions through the lens of grief, faith, and the human experience, offering compassion and hope to anyone navigating pain.

Happiness versus joy Happiness and joy are often confused, but they have distinct meanings. Recognizing this difference enables us to enjoy life more and focus on what truly matters. In my last post, “ It’s Okay to Be Sad: Embracing Emotions,” I discussed how unpredictable and imperfect life can be, and how we often fail to take the time to understand many of our emotions. Through grief, I’ve learned to sit with these feelings and work through pain so I can rediscover my auth

In a culture that prizes constant happiness and quick fixes, sadness is often treated as something to avoid or hide. Yet, sadness is not a weakness—it’s a vital, honest part of being human. In “Embracing Our Rethinking their relationship with sadness, showing how acknowledging this tender emotion can bring healing, compassion, and deeper connection. The blog opens with a powerful reminder that embracing sadness doesn’t mean wallowing in self-pity. It’s an act of courage and a

I know this pain personally. I prayed endlessly for my son Kevin, who battled depression for years. I begged God to lift the darkness, to restore joy, and to heal him completely. I also prayed for my young niece after her cancer diagnosis, believing God would heal her. Both prayers were met with heartbreaking outcomes: Kevin died by suicide, and my niece passed away within six months of her diagnosis. In those moments, I asked what many believers have asked: Was God listening

Yearning is one of the most common and powerful emotions in grief, even more dominant than sadness or anger. Research describes it as an unsatisfied, future-oriented desire for the lost person. It often takes the shape of “what if” thoughts, imagining what life could have been had the loss not occurred. Yearning is bittersweet, stirring both love and pain, affection and frustration. It reveals itself as love refusing to end, even when presence is gone.

Overthinking The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking – Albert...

September is Suicide Prevention Month. Learn the truth about depression, stigma, and hope through research, real stories, and Kevin’s journey. Suicide does not discriminate. This Suicide Prevention Month, read Kevin’s story and discover facts, hope, and support for mental health struggles. Depression is more than sadness. In honor of Suicide Prevention Month, Kevin’s story sheds light on stigma, suicide, and the power of compassion.