I was recently talking to a mentor of mine. We discussed how grief creeps in in various ways. One lesson I have learned in life to the fullest is that grief comes in all shapes and sizes. Another lesson is that pain can turn a wound to a scab and then to a scar. Grief is a lot like scar tissue. It forms slowly, after the sharp pain of the initial wound. At first, it’s raw and sensitive; everything around it hurts. Over time, scar tissue develops, a tough, protective patch. It’s evidence that healing has taken place, but it’s not the same as the unbroken skin that was there before. Like scars, grief changes us. It makes us tender in some spots, tougher in others, and forever marked by what we’ve been through. Our scars are a testament to our survival. Grief will come in painful waves and go out again, much like the ocean. Though tender, the tissue can tighten and ache. We survive it each time. We do recover.

Grief doesn’t arrive neatly plated. It’s more like girl dinner, or a charcuterie board thrown together at 9 p.m., a little hot tea, a tumbler of wine, a Yoo-hoo, some pistachios, and a soul-food tomato sandwich you slapped together while staring off into space. Snacking while the edamame water comes to a boil, wondering if you’ll even still be hungry by the time it’s done. That’s grief. It’s a little bit of everything at once: comfort, chaos, survival, sweetness, bitterness . It’s grapes in a plastic carton beside half-sliced tomatoes on the cutting board. It’s coffee and chocolate milk coexisting on the same counter. It’s knowing you can’t make it through a full “meal,” but you’ll piece together enough to keep yourself alive tonight. Grief is a spread of contradictions. The things that don’t belong together, belong together, because they’re what you had the energy to reach for. The pistachios, the leftover cheese, the mug with your tea bag string dangling, a sip of wine to chase it. It’s not about the presentation. It’s about survival. And like girl dinner, grief is about doing what you can with what you have, whether it looks pretty or not. -Casie Ellison

I get lost in my head thinking about days to come while simultaneously reliving memories. Images and live action clips run wild in my head, triggering audible chuckling and sometimes random bursts of laughter. I found myself alone in a single person kayak in the middle of the Caribbean. I was marveling at the beauty surrounding me. The puffy, fluffy clouds hung against a cerulean blue sky. The sea was still and so transparent that sea creatures big and small were visible to my sunglass-covered eyes. Peace filled my heart, and tears rolled down my cheeks because God was in the kayak with me. My conversation with Him was full of praise for His awesomeness and the beauty surrounding me, but I also met Him with deep sorrow and an inability to fathom why He takes away those we love. I held nothing back as I poured my heart out to Him. Over the years, I’ve learned to bring my sorrow, joy, and praise to God because He can handle my big emotions. He wants a relationship with me, and that means holding nothing back: the good, the not-so-good, the multitude of questions, doubt, anger, sorrow, grief, and despair. I am learning to trust and rely on Him because He is greater and bigger than my deepest sorrows, saddest emotions, and paralyzing anxiety. He fights for me so that I don’t have to. He always meets me with love, compassion, and hope for the days to come. -Claire Cunningham

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?