I’ve often thought that grief can feel like a heavy shadow that refuses to lift. In the early days of loss, it may seem impossible to imagine a future where happiness could exist again. Every breath feels weighted, every step exhausting. Yet even in the deepest valleys, God plants something that has the power to keep us moving forward: hope.

A new year can feel like an unspoken expectation—to be stronger, to do better, to move on. But grief does not follow the calendar.

The holiday season comes clothed in glittering lights, familiar hymns, and cherished traditions. It is often spoken of as a season of joy and celebration, rich with togetherness and expectation. Yet for those walking through grief, this sacred season meets a tender heart, and the holidays can feel heavy, quiet, and anything but joyful. Grief has a way of amplifying everything, and during the holidays, it speaks louder. Every ornament pulled from a box carries a memory. Every

The Christmas season has a way of magnifying what and who is missing. Everywhere we turn, people are celebrating “the most wonderful time of the year,” yet for those grieving, it can feel like the heaviest. The lights may sparkle, but our hearts don’t always shine the same way they once did. And the tension between what the world expects and what our souls can carry becomes especially real. One of the hardest parts of the holidays is figuring out how to handle invitations, ga

Friends, every year around this time, I’m reminded how the holidays can stir both joy and heartache. When the holidays feel heavy, all I can think about is how many of us will miss our loved ones on Thanksgiving and the empty chair facing us.

For many, this is a time of joy and connection. But for those who are grieving, the holidays can be overwhelming and feel like a season we quietly brace ourselves for.

Have you ever found yourself asking questions you never thought you’d ask? Questions that seem to echo into silence—like “Why, Lord?” or “How am I supposed to go on?” The questions grief brings has a way of opening our hearts to things we never imagined needing to ask. I’m currently reading the book, The Girl on the Bathroom Floor . It’s the heartbreaking story of the Smith family who lost their 3-year-old boy in a drowning accident. Amber Smith writes with such a profound gu

Grief has a way of narrowing our vision. In the midst of loss, it can feel as though the world has been drained of color, leaving only shades of sorrow. Ordinary moments that once brought delight may now feel hollow, and the weight of absence overshadows everything else. Yet even in the valley of sorrow, God offers us glimpses of beauty—the power of small joys in grief that whisper hope into our hurting hearts. I remember days when getting out of bed felt like an impossible t

When loss first enters our lives, it can feel like the very air has been taken from our lungs. Grief has a way of pressing down so heavily that even the simple act of breathing feels like too much.

Time does not erase the ache of losing a child—it only teaches us how to carry it differently. Yet even in the darkest seasons, I have seen how God begins to move a heart from sorrow to strength, gently leading us toward hope we never thought possible.

When the world rekindles our grief with a news headline, a tragic story, or a violent act it can reopen wounds we thought were finally healing.

Grief can feel like waking up inside a nightmare that doesn’t end when the sun rises. It’s as if time itself slows down, trapping you in moments that others move past easily.

If you’ve ever battled a stubborn illness, you may have heard the discouraging words: “It just needs to run its course.” There’s no quick remedy, only the passage of time. Grief feels much the same. There are no shortcuts or formulas—it’s a journey that unfolds slowly, often far longer than we would like. It’s the slow grace of healing. Loss disrupts everything familiar. The routines we once relied on vanish, leaving us in a landscape that feels foreign and unsteady. We long

Our bodies carry the weight of loss too. Sometimes the heart’s ache is mirrored in aching muscles, a racing pulse, or a fatigue that feels bone-deep. Just as grief is more than one emotion there is a physical side of grief.

Even if it’s hard to believe it right now, as you move forward your heart won’t always feel as tender or your grief as intense as it does in the early days, weeks, and months following a loss. When grief shatters our hearts, choosing joy can feel like an impossible choice.

Most people think the grieving period is over after the funeral and we should simply pick up the pieces and move on, forgetting our loved ones who are no longer with us. Kind of like “out of sight, out of mind.” But for those walking the journey we know all too well this is just the beginning of a journey filled with many ups and downs. Even if our loved ones are no longer in our sight, they will forever be in our hearts and mind.

August marks International Overdose Awareness Month—a time to remember the precious lives lost to overdose and to stand in solidarity with the families left behind. For many, this month is deeply personal. It’s not just a global observance—it’s a reminder of sons and daughters, siblings and friends, whose stories were cut short by substance use disorder. It’s about honoring lives lost to addiction.

When grieving a loved one, it’s pretty typical to question God and even turn away from Him. Our silence toward Him is exhibited in a variety of ways. Have you found yourself angry with God for letting your loved one die? How often have you shared some words with God that weren’t so pretty? Anger is grief that has been silent for too long.

There are no shortcuts through grief. Covering my ears, or covering my heart, only keeps the sorrow at bay temporarily. Feel all the feelings. Cry all the tears—though it seems the more we let them fall, the more they produce. Perhaps we can think of them as holy raindrops.

When tragedy strikes and the dam of sorrow bursts, we are thrust back into a place we thought we had left behind. The ache is raw, and the grief feels new, even if it’s old. What do we do?