There is a quiet distance between who I once was and who I am becoming, a space shaped by love, loss, and a deeper awareness I did not carry

I didn’t truly grasp the complexity of suffering until I lost my beloved son, Kevin. Before his passing, I experienced pain like many others—disappointments, heartaches, and challenging times. Yet the kind of suffering that burrows deep into your soul and reshapes your view of the world was entirely foreign to me. Suffering, in its essence, transcends mere pain. It embodies the profound emotional, mental, or spiritual distress that weighs heavily on our hearts when something

Sleepness Nights Grief is exhausting. It drains the body, clouds the mind, and settles deep in the bones. Yet even when we are utterly worn out, sleep may still refuse to come. After Kevin died, my husband and I experienced insomnia in ways we had never known before. We were tired all the time. Grief made simple tasks feel heavy. But when night fell, and the house grew quiet, sleep felt impossible. Our bodies were weary, yet our minds remained alert. The silence magnified the

The hardest part of losing my son is living in the “after.” Suicide divided my life into before and after. I replay our final conversations. I wrestled with guilt. I questioned God. I lived in a fog of disbelief, moving through days that felt heavy and unreal. Yet what has sustained me is not trying to conquer grief, but learning to walk with it. I rediscovered faith. His death by suicide still leaves me grappling with how someone so gentle and creative could suffer so deeply

And in both, God was there — not explaining, not fixing, but holding me and whispering that He remains my refuge and strength, my ever-present help in every season. Psalm 23 comforted me then, and it comforts me still. I now offer that same comfort to my sister-in-law. When you attend a funeral, remember that you are stepping onto sacred ground. The person in the front row is not only burying someone they love; they are also burying their life. Grief is not always loud. Somet

After my son Kevin died by suicide, I learned that niceness may acknowledge loss, but true kindness stays, remembers, and walks beside those who grieve, offering presence, listening, and unwavering love. Kindness respects that love continues. It allows stories to be told again and again. It knows that remembering is not dwelling, and that speaking a loved one’s name is not reopening a wound. It is honoring a life.

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.