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

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.

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