I was reading the gospel recently, and this verse touched my heart for the moms we serve. Rachel Weeping Matthew 2:18 (NIV) “A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.” There is a cry so deep, so sacred, that even Scripture pauses to make space for it. Rachel’s cry is not just a historical moment; it’s the echo of every grieving mother’s voice across time. And when we have cried this cry or heard it, we won't ever forget its sound. When Herod ordered the death of the baby boys in Bethlehem, Matthew didn’t just report the horror; he reached back to Jeremiah, to Rachel, the mother of a nation, who “refused to be comforted because they are no more.” (This is not the refuasal to be comforted by using avoidance).  This verse speaks directly to mothers whose children were stolen by violence. It tells you: • Your grief is not invisible. • Your cries are heard by heaven. • Your refusal to be comforted isn’t weakness, it’s honest, and it’s holy. God didn’t look away from Rachel’s tears and He doesn’t look away from yours. Jesus was born into this world not in spite of the pain, but through it. Into a landscape of murder, injustice, and trauma, Hope still came . Not to erase the mourning, but to join it… and eventually redeem it. You are not alone in your heartbreak. Rachel is weeping with you. And so is the God who promised to wipe every tear. Reflection Prompt: What does it mean to you that God cares for the voice of a grieving mother? Where have you felt unseen in your grief, and what might it look like to believe that God saw it all along?

Why? I’ve led many support groups for those grieving murder loss, and one question that always lingers is why. We often believe that finding the answer to why will somehow ease the pain, but this is a natural illusion our minds create in an attempt to find relief. Unfortunately, the answers we long for may never come, and the healing must begin even in the absence of understanding . If you paused here and this seems impossible, stay with me. IF we knew why and our loved one was still murdered, would we grieve any less? Grief is a disordered process. Grief isn’t something we can neatly tuck away in a box with a bow, only to revisit when it’s convenient. It breaks through, often unexpectedly, again and again. So, how do we live with this truth ? How do we face the fear of the next “what if” and continue forward anyway? The hard truth is, unless we squarely face the difficult, painful parts of life, we will never go through the steps necessary that give us the capacity to be more deeply human. Grief work is hard, and it's worth the price. Letting the pain have a place, but not the whole space Instead of demanding answers, we can ask gentler questions: What do I need right now, in this moment? How can I honor my loved one without losing myself? Where can I go with this pain that feels honest and safe?

The manilla folder containing 6 dvd’s dated February 25, 2006 sits atop my dresser. It has moved from the office, to the kitchen island, to the laundry room, and to the mantle. The contents supposedly contain files and notes from the investigation. It doesn’t sit right with me that the date is February 25, 2006 when the current year is 2025 almost 20 years ago. Why aren’t there more DVD’s? Why isn’t the case file larger? Why haven’t more notes been taken? Leads followed? License plates run down? Auto body shops listed? I spent the better part of 6 months communicating with the police department, the cold case unit and the lead detective in order to gain access to the elusive file. I’m not convinced that I have been given access to everything. Previously, corrupted files were sent along with autopsy photos, 911 recordings, and witness statements. There simply has to be more: more evidence collected, more leads run down, more suspects, more answers, but there aren’t. I haven’t been able to bring myself to open these DVD’s. What if the detective sent another batch of corrupted files? What if there isn’t any significant work done? What if absolutely no work was done? So, I’ll wait until I have enough courage and energy to focus. It’s exhausting and draining. I’m unsure of what I will find, and I am fearful that I will find nothing. However, in order to pursue justice for Toby, I will continue to fight . -Claire Cunningham

Today, I received a letter from Her Royal Highness Catherine, The Princess of Wales.  Yes. That Catherine. I didn’t want to open it at first. The envelope was perfect—crisp edges, royal crest, my name printed on the front like something out of a dream. For a moment, I just stared at it, frozen. I wasn’t ready to open it because deep down, I knew I had no one to open it with. Let me rewind. A few months ago, I sent the Princess a copy of my mental health guidebook. I wrote her a letter, telling her how much I admired her work with early childhood development, how deeply I respected the compassion and conviction she brings to it. I told her she embodies everything I aspire to be—a mother, a woman, an advocate. And then I told her about my mom. How her murder shattered my world. How my grief gave birth to Change the Face of Depression. How, in her absence, I made a vow to make meaning out of pain. I never expected a reply. But today, one arrived. And when I read her letter—my hands trembling, heart wide open—I was flooded with something I didn’t expect: loneliness. Because I didn’t know who to call. There was no one I could think of to scream with, to cry with, to say “Can you believe this happened?” I wished on a million stars in that moment that my mother were here. Because she should’ve been the one I called first. But the cruel irony is—if she were here, I may have never written that letter at all. Grief is funny like that. It carves out holes and fills them with purpose. And now, because of her, the Princess of Wales knows my name. I’m going to frame that letter. Not because of the fame or the fairytale—but because of the truth it holds: even the most unimaginable pain can lead to the most unimaginable places. To anyone who’s lost someone, who’s felt invisible, who’s grieving with nowhere to put it—I see you. You are not small. You are not forgotten. Your story matters more than you know. It can go farther than you imagine. Mine made it to a palace. Thank you, Mom. You didn’t get to stay—but you planted something in me that never stopped growing. This one’s for you. - Casie Ellison, Founder of Change the Face of Depression (CTFOD)

I knew it was coming just as it does every year exactly 3 days after my husband’s birthday and the same day as my steel-magnolia-of-a- best-friend: Toby’s birthday. Previous years I celebrated Toby by jumping off 100 foot platforms, white water rafting class 4 rapids, completing ropes courses, and climbing sides of mountains. This year was different. Stillness and quiet blanketed my heart instead of wild adventures. I chose to be in the simple, everyday moments and to observe nature around me. I spent most of the day walking and talking to God and to Toby. Simple prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude for being given the gift of having an authentic, genuine brother. Prayers asking for Toby to be with me as I walked along. Feeling Toby’s presence is a daily occurrence, but on this birthday, he showed up in a big way. I love looking at the sky when I walk, completely in awe of God’s artwork. The sky was filled with wispy, feathery clouds. Then I saw it: a heart with a rainbow prism of colors floating on top. As I spotted the heart, two dragonflies flew right in front of my nose, then upward toward the center of the heart. I laughed out loud and exclaimed, “There you are!” The neighbor mowing his lawn kept his eye on me as I stood photographing the sky and roaring with laughter. It was a good day. Happy 49th birthday, Toby. I love you. -Claire Cunningham

Grief doesn’t come with a map or a deadline. It’s not something you “fix," it’s something you learn to carry. And if you’ve lost a child, you know this kind of grief rewrites everything. It shrinks our world completely. Some days feel unbearable. Other days might seem calm, but a scent, a photo, or a memory knocks the wind out of you. That’s normal. That’s grief. You are not broken, you are surviving something unimaginable. Here are a few gentle ways to care for yourself when the weight feels too heavy (back to the basics): 1. Breathe Through the Waves Grief often comes in waves and it’s okay to let them come. Take deep, slow breaths. Sometimes, all you need to do is breathe your way through the next moment. 2. Let It Out in a Safe Way You don’t have to hold it all in. Cry. Journal. Pray. Talk. Scream into a pillow. Let the pain move instead of staying stuck inside you. 3. Don’t Do It Alone Even if no one else “gets it,” find someone who will sit with you in your pain not fix it, just be with you. A support group, a trusted friend, or a grief counselor can make all the difference. 4. Make Space for Rest and Nourishment Grief is exhausting. Feed your body. Drink water. Sleep when you can. These aren’t small things they’re survival steps. 5. Create a Way to Honor Your Child Whether it’s lighting a candle, creating a memory box, planting a tree, or simply speaking their name honoring their life is part of healing. You don’t have to be strong every day. You don’t have to “move on.” You just have to keep showing up for yourself, one breath, one moment at a time. And on the days you can’t even do that, let me remind you: You are not alone. You are deeply loved. And your child will never be forgotten.

Expanding the Ball in the Box Theory to Make Room for Real Life

Tuesday, my daughter was followed by a suspicious car while taking our pup for an evening walk. My phone lit up with her text message, “Help! Weird car.” I sprinted out of the front door running toward where I thought she was, while my husband and son took off in the car. We were going to find her. Reunited in the kitchen we huddled and hugged. We stood in silence. We stood in the stillness praising God that she was in our arms. I hugged her so long and hard that she had to ask me to stop. Eventually, we were able to recount every minute detail. I turned into (an all too familiar) furiously focused momma bear detective determined to make sure this situation never happened again. Police were called, neighbors reviewed footage from outside cameras, posts were made on the neighborhood page, and pepper spray was purchased. …then I found myself huddled in my office (also known as the laundry room) weeping, drowning in fear, brimming with anger, and overwhelmed with anxiety. I was reliving the trauma that derailed my world 19 years ago. The anxiety, fear, rage, anger, disbelief, and questions relentlessly crashed into me. Listening as authorities told me there was nothing that could be done, yet reassuring my family that everything would be ok. I have disciplined myself to walk straight into each emotion in order to face each one. This will be a lifelong process: no cutting corners, no denial, no withdrawing . It must be done so that my heart continues to heal and my mind can rest. -Survivor, Claire Cunningham

Holy Moments. It is hard to imagine moments being holy in the pain a survivor of murder endures. The unknown of the who, why, and sometimes even how. I lived for years waiting to know how many times my dad was shot and where. So many questions prevented me from some of the holy moments around me. This past week, I graduated and my dad was not there, again. He missed another moment and another celebration. Every moment, I look up and I imagine him there. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders. I remember him here but that is fading every big moment at a time. Almost 17 years later, and he missed so many moments. God has been so good in the confusion, anger, and grief. I know he has been with me all along, and most of all he SEES the pain and has compassion. He does not leave us in the painful moments, he makes them HOLY . God is the ONLY thing that makes sense in the unknown and pain. A friend of mine got me a grief devotional and I wanted to share an excerpt with you all: I surely cannot change what happened. Or make sense of it. Or find some lesson in it. Or force the wheels of justice to spin to a satisfying end. And so I am left feeling vulnerable, and violated, and helpless. Be my refuge and my shelter, O Lord. Be my shield and defender. Hold me in this hour; hold me through this long, dark night when death’s shadow obstructs the light; cradle and carry me through this vale of sorrows; deliver me to higher ground. Let justice roll down, O Christ. Lift my head that I might see new evidence of your mercies in my life. I am too weak to walk this path alone, or to power through by force of my own will. I know, O God, that you would have me be completely honest in my words to you, voicing even these discouragements and volatile emotions. And you are more than able to bear their weight, never wavering in your constant love and care for me. For you, O God, watched one you love die violently— your only son. You sympathize with me. So I will freely speak to you the depths of what I feel.