Faith

There’s something about certain dates that never lose their weight.
For me, May 6th is one of them. It’s the day my mother passed away—back in 2002—and even though it’s been twenty-three years, my heart still knows when it’s coming. I don’t need a calendar reminder. My soul remembers.

Grief has a way of circling back. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. Some memories are stitched so deeply into who we are that their absence still echoes, even after decades. I’ve learned that grief is not about “getting over” someone. It’s about learning to live in a world where they no longer exist in the way they once did.

But this year, as the anniversary approaches, I’m doing something different.

I’m choosing joy.

Not because I don’t miss her—I do, every single day. Not because the ache has disappeared—it hasn’t. But because I want my remembrance of her to reflect the way she lived, not just the way she left.

She Laughed Loud and Loved Big

My mom had the kind of laughter that filled a room—loud, unapologetic, contagious. She had this beautiful way of turning even ordinary days into something worth remembering. Her stories, her jokes, the way she lit up when she talked about her children—those are the snapshots I carry with me. Those are the gifts she left behind.

She wasn’t just a mother to me and my sister. She was a joy-giver. A peacemaker. A woman who loved deeply and found ways to care even when life wasn’t easy.

When May 6th arrives, I know I’ll feel the pull of sadness—and that’s okay. But this year, I’m also going to do my best to laugh at one of her old jokes, smile at a memory, and maybe even tell one of her stories out loud. I want to celebrate her, not collapse under the weight of her absence.

Grief Isn’t a Stranger Anymore

Grief and I have gotten to know each other well over the years. We’ve had long conversations in the quiet hours. I’ve learned its rhythms, its unpredictability. And I’ve learned that grief doesn’t mean something’s wrong with us—it means something mattered deeply.

Some days, grief is gentle. Other days, it comes crashing in like a wave. But even on those days, God is near.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

What a promise. In our loneliest, lowest, most fragile moments, He leans in. He doesn’t rush us to be okay. He simply stays close. And that’s what gives me peace—even when my heart still hurts.

Choosing Joy Isn’t Denial—It’s Devotion

Joy and sorrow can live in the same heart.
That’s something grief has taught me.

I can miss her and still smile. I can cry and still hope. I can remember the pain, and still praise God for the years I had with her. This tension between mourning and rejoicing is holy ground—because it’s where healing starts.

I’m not choosing joy as a way to deny my sadness. I’m choosing it as a way to honor her legacy—a legacy built on love, laughter, and unwavering strength. My mom didn’t let life steal her light. So I won’t let grief steal mine.

To the One Who’s Grieving Too

Maybe you’re facing an anniversary of your own. Or maybe the loss is fresh and the days still feel heavy. I want you to know: you are not alone. Whether your grief is loud and raw or quiet and lingering, God sees you. And He holds space for you to feel it all.

There’s no formula for healing. But there is a gentle Savior who walks with us through it. He grieves with us. He comforts us. And He promises that this isn’t the end of the story.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

Even in loss, joy is still promised.

A Prayer for the Journey

Lord, for every heart grieving today—whether it’s been twenty-three years or just one—I pray Your peace would be more than a concept. Make it tangible. Wrap Your arms around us, and remind us that it’s okay to feel, to cry, to remember. Help us find moments of joy, and may the memories of those we love bring more warmth than pain. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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Grief may change us, but it doesn’t have to break us.
We can carry sorrow and still hold on to hope.
We can remember what we’ve lost, and still choose to live fully.

And with God, we can walk through grief and find joy—not instead of the pain, but right in the middle of it.

Let me tell you about this woman named Alana. She’s the kind of person everybody leans on. You know, the one who’s always there with a solution, a prayer, or just a listening ear. But what most people don’t see is what’s going on behind her smile.

Life has been throwing punches at Alana left and right. She’s lost both her parents, been through a tough divorce, and even had a close friend betray her. And as if that wasn’t enough, she’s been rejected by people she thought would always have her back. Oh, and her health? Her body’s been acting like her worst enemy. It’s been one thing after another, and all of it has left her feeling like she’s walking around with open wounds that never quite heal.

Now, imagine this: every time Alana’s phone rings, her heart races. She’s bracing herself for bad news because, let’s be real, that’s all it seems to be lately. If a family member she hasn’t talked to in a while calls, her breath gets shallow, and her mind goes to the worst-case scenario. “What’s wrong now?” she thinks. And when she tries to mend fences with people who’ve hurt her, it doesn’t always go well. Instead of bringing peace, her words sometimes come out harsh and defensive because that’s what happens when you’re living from a place of pain.

Alana doesn’t mean to lash out. It’s not like she wants to be angry or suspicious. But when you’ve been hurt so many times, it’s hard not to protect yourself. She’s always ready for the next blow, even if it never comes.

One night, Alana was journaling—just trying to make sense of it all—when she came across a verse that hit her differently: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28). It felt like God was sitting right there with her, whispering to her heart, “Give it to Me. Let Me carry it.”

That moment didn’t magically fix everything, but it was a start. Alana began to realize that all the weight she was carrying—the fear, the anger, the sadness—wasn’t hers to hold onto. She started to let God into those places she’d been guarding so tightly.

It wasn’t easy. Healing never is. But she took small steps. She prayed before answering the phone, asking God to help her handle whatever news came her way. She learned to pause during tough conversations, giving herself a moment to breathe instead of reacting. And she started to show herself the same grace she’d been giving everyone else.

Alana’s story might sound familiar to you. Maybe you’ve been there too—feeling like life keeps knocking you down, and you’re always waiting for the next hit. Let me tell you something: You’re not alone, and you’re not crazy. Trauma has a way of making us feel like we have to fight or flee all the time. But you don’t have to stay there.

The Bible says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18). That’s not just a pretty verse; it’s a promise. God sees you. He knows the weight you’re carrying, and He’s ready to take it if you let Him.

So here’s the question: Will you let Him? Will you trust Him with the pain, the fear, the unanswered questions? Healing won’t happen overnight, but step by step, breath by breath, and prayer by prayer, you can find your way back to peace. You’re not disqualified. You’re not too broken. And you’re definitely not alone.