Rest: A Step of Faith

A whirlwind week ended with my parents’ funeral and a return to everyday responsibilities. As I begin to process the grief and old wounds it stirred, I’m realizing that making time to rest may be my next step of faith.

When Life Topples

Grief, funeral preparations, work, and everyday responsibilities have stacked on top of one another. Everything feels as if it has toppled, and the tears have spilled over the mess. For now, I’m doing what must be done today and trusting God with tomorrow.

No Words

I write for a living, but this week, I didn’t know what to write. My dad died two weeks ago, and I’m tired. There’s been a funeral to plan, family to contact, travel arrangements to make, work to do, and regular life just keeps going. Sometimes “Help me, Lord” is about all I’ve got. Romans 8 says the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness and prays for us when we don’t even have the words. I wrote about this in this week’s Wednesday Letter because I know I’m not the only woman who’s reached a place where there just aren’t any words left. If you’re carrying a loss that’s left you tired or without words, I hope you’ll read this week’s letter. When we run out of words, God hasn’t run out of ways to hear us.

I'm Tired of Change

I’m tired of change. There. I said it. Usually, I can find something hopeful to say about a new season. I can talk about trusting God with what’s ahead, looking forward to what He’s doing, or remembering that change can bring unexpected blessings. Today, I’m just tired.

No Timetable for Moving Forward

After my dad’s wife died, he didn’t change much of anything. Her things stayed where they’d been. The house remained much as she’d left it. For him, there wasn’t any sudden cleaning out of closets, redecorating rooms, or getting rid of reminders of the life they’d shared. Other people respond completely differently. I’ve known widows who’ve begun cleaning out their husband’s belongings...

The People Who Need You Don't Always See Your Pain

Grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks remarkably capable. On the thirty-sixth anniversary of my daughter Alisha’s accident, I was still working and caring for everyone around me, but internally, I was tired. One thoughtful gesture reminded me how powerful it is when someone sees beneath all our doing.

Finding My Way Back to Peace

My nine-year-old daughter, Alisha, is buried at Dry Creek Cemetery in Boise, Idaho, 812 miles from my home in Frederick, Colorado. After Alisha died, we visited several cemeteries in Boise, trying to choose her final resting place. Nothing about that task felt natural. Parents are not supposed to choose cemeteries for their children. Then we drove through the entrance of Dry Creek Cemetery and saw a plaque bearing these words:

Perhaps It's Just a Butterfly

I see yellow-and-black butterflies often. Sometimes one floats past while I’m outside. Other times, one appears when my thoughts have wandered to my son Jason. I always stop and watch it. Sometimes, the butterfly seems to follow me from the front to the backyard.

When Home Doesn't Feel Like Home

“When I die, I want to be buried in Boise,” Alisha told me. We live in Colorado. In a way only God works, we were in Boise when Alisha died three weeks later. Still out of state after Alisha's accident and funeral, a well-meaning neighbor attempted to clean out Alisha’s bedroom before we came home.

The Empty Chair at Every Celebration

When much of our country spent the weekend celebrating America's 250th birthday with backyard barbecues, neighborhood parades, fireworks, and family gatherings, I found myself thinking about something different. I wondered how many people made it through the holiday carrying an invisible weight. The pictures on social media showed smiling families gathered around picnic tables, children waving flags, grandparents watching fireworks, and cousins laughing together. It looked joyful, and for many families it truly was. For some of us, holidays feel like a tap on the shoulder, reminding us that someone is missing.

Grieving the Future that Never Was

Birthdays can be some of the hardest days after a loss because they remind us not only of who someone was, but of everything that never got to be. My son would be forty-eight today. He died twenty-four years ago. Naturally, I find myself wondering what he would’ve looked like, what work he might’ve been doing, whether he would’ve been married, whether he'd have children running around calling me Grandma. The calendar keeps moving, but a mother's love doesn't measure time the same way. There are still days when I miss hearing Jason's voice. I miss his bear hugs. I miss buying birthday cards and wondering what gift would make him smile. The ache has changed over the years. It’s not nearly as overwhelming as it was during the first decade, but there are still moments when the tears come without warning.