Working through grief sometimes means taking action. This pain doesn't go away just because time passes. Grief is heavy. It can feel like waves that knock the breath out of you when you least expect it. It changes everything, and it’s not something you can “just get over.” Even Jesus didn’t avoid grief. At the tomb of His friend Lazarus, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). He knew he was about to raise his friend from the dead, but He still felt the weight of loss . This realization gives me hope and allows me to feel deeply, too. That moment reminds us that emotions aren’t a sign of weak faith; they’re a part of being human. Jesus doesn’t ask us to suppress our feelings or rush past the pain. He walks with us through it, through the tears, the questions, the days that feel unbearable, even if that means we won't have all of the answers. Getting through grief isn’t about forgetting or forcing yourself to be strong. It’s about letting Jesus sit with you in the ache, trusting Him to carry you when you can’t take another step, and believing that comfort will come, because He promised it would (Matthew 5:4). If you’re grieving, feel it. Cry it. Pray it. And know you’re not alone, Jesus is with you in every tear, and He won’t EVER let go.

For the Motherless Mother Becoming a Single One 

Form. It is always about form. I work out a lot. This is not to brag; this is how I usually connect beautiful insights. When I attend a weightlifting class, I notice that everyone in the room is using various-sized weights. Some have smaller weights, some have medium-sized, and then others have the heaviest. I watch those people. I check their form, their ability to carry the weight, and perform without injury. Then I focus on my form. I do not often go very heavy because the weight I am lifting, I am still practicing good form with. Why am I sharing this? This simple observation during workouts reminded me of how we carry emotional weight in grief, often without realizing how much we’re lifting or whether we’re carrying it in a way that helps or harms. Sometimes, we take on more weight than we need to, forgetting that we have a choice in how much we carry and how we carry it. People often ask me, “Why would God allow this?” The weight of that question is heavy, especially when carried alone. When we shoulder grief without proper form, without community, support, hope, healing, or love, suffering can become the lens through which we see everything. God's permission in our suffering is not passive. He is not watching from the sidelines. Pain and sorrow can distort the shape of our hearts, distorting our ability to see hope and healing when pain and sorrow have occurred. Change the form (perception, perspective) and the weight of the pain will feel lighter. Nothing is bringing our loved ones back, but we can find a way through the pain. We may not get to choose what we carry, but we can choose how we carry it and who carries it with us.

Soccer and tennis have changed my life: lifelong friendships, life lessons, world travel, tragic heartbreak, and immense joy. Season ticket holders become familiar with each other throughout each season. Tailgates, traveling to out of town matches, group chats, team chants, aggressive high fives and fist bumps, maddening losing spells, and joyous winning sprees unify the ‘family’. This sounds peculiar, but shortly after Toby’s murder, I have become sensitive to individuals who have lost someone to homicide. I sensed this from a fellow season ticket holder. When she asked me about my siblings, I shared Toby’s story. She shared that her daughter was murdered. Our friendship has grown over the last 3 soccer seasons. Her family is my family, and my family is her family. We have an understanding that is at the heart level. I believe that God crossed our paths because we each needed a safe place and an empathetic soul in which to confide. There is so much power in weathering emotional storms and rejoicing in the triumphant sunrises with a kindred spirit. She is my sister in Jesus Christ, and I am forever grateful. -Claire Cunningham

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