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

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.

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