When you strap weight onto someone else, suddenly they get it. Their knees buckle, cannot breathe, cannot climb the stairs. Ten minutes in and they are begging to take it off. I wonder what would happen if we could do this with grief.
What if sacrifice is not supposed to be the abnormal state?
The best gift anyone can give is talking about my kids and letting me talk about them.
Jesus didn’t conform to this world. He didn’t affirm people in whatever they were doing. He transformed people and the world around them.
I don’t believe suicide is as preventable as we’ve been told. If intervention is possible, it should never fall on the person who is struggling the most. What makes this more complex and heartbreaking: There are no reliable signs.
I can have moments of joy, brief glimpses of something that might look like happiness to an observer. But nothing in my life is the same.
In my darkest hour, I needed anchors but found only mirages. Those I trusted became empty riverbeds—dry when I needed them to flow. One glimpse…
“Spectacular Catastrophes” Massive tragedies, so life-altering, that they demand we ask the hardest question of all: Why would God allow this? Why do bad things happen to good people? Biblical stories in modern life.
Holding in my love for my son or my sorrow for losses would suffocate me. Instead, I choose to speak, to let my grief breathe, even as I wrestle with God over the why of it all.
When you lose a kid to suicide, it’s not just their absence that hits you. It’s the shock of how they left, the questions that haunt you.
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