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

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.

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