Our wasting away is indisputable; these earthly tents will perish. But our hope is not in this life but the next, not this body but our glorified one.

Make space to grieve, but watch for the ways Jesus faithfully shows up in those deep moments of grief.

In his special grace towards his children, the Lord goes even further. He not only allows objects to hold memories, but he also specifically builds our faith through them.

We must ask God to give us a heart that is willing to kneel down and weep with those who are weeping.

Our joy might be in a muted shade, but the Holy Spirit is working, and he can fill our hearts with settled confidence in him.

Maybe it’s in our deepest valleys and most broken places where Jesus meets us—not with relief or by pulling us out of our pain and suffering, but by simply holding us close, holding our faith.

Being honest, in light of all this, sometimes I struggle to believe that God sees and cares. But then Christmas gives me hope that he does see and care; and that he loves me after all.

My journey through infertility left me tattered, beaten, and unsure how to navigate life.

Twenty years have passed since my son’s death from an overdose. I wish I could tell you that you reach a point when you are over the death of a loved one. I can’t. But I can tell you how God has carried me.

If he can hold all the waters of the earth in the hollow of his hand, then he is certainly able to help us through our trials.

I hadn’t expected our trip to Maine to leave such an impression upon me. But it did. I won’t ever forget what my elderly aunt said to her elderly brother.

A friend who knows and shares your grief is a gift from God.