faith

Who is God? — Day 9: One Year Later

June 30, 2025

Our second church service since Mom left us filled me with encouragement once more. A healthy amount of tears dripped from my sore eyes onto my pallid cheeks as we sang of God’s good plans, his faithfulness, and his constance. All of which I believe, and I mean really believe.

However, I mentioned the dissonance between faith and desperate circumstances during Mom’s Celebration of Life, and I want to share more of what exactly that looks like. Suffering forces people to confront their inmost beliefs, and that is completely healthy and can become beautiful. My Mom loved Jesus with her entire being: the cacophony of confusion left in her wake prompts intense introspection and deconstruction.

Our Father in heaven,

your name be honored as holy.

Your kingdom come,

Your will be done

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our debts,

as we also have forgiven our debtors.

And do not bring us into temptation,

but deliver us from the evil one.

Matthew 6:9-13, CSB

Now, please understand, I’m not looking for answers and I do not plan to provide any at this time, but I do want to share the questions clamoring in my mind. Thoughts that, perhaps, cloud your mind as well. Maybe sharing my thoughts will help those echoing the same to feel less alone and less afraid, because two thoughts can be true at the same time: one can trust God and be utterly confused and skeptical at the same time. Thus, my questions:

• Good fathers are supposed to protect their family. Why don’t you [God] protect mine?

• If Jesus is the abundant life, how could my mom die? She loved him.

• If he [God] knew what Mom needed, why weren’t her needs met?

I’ve said this so many times — I believe that God can do all things, but I fear what he will allow to happen. This is precisely why: I have now experienced twice how despair and hopelessness kill those whom I love, and those who legitimately love Jesus.

Today, I was incredibly overwhelmed by the generosity and the care from mine and Scott’s small group. They ensured our current needs were met and provided provisions for our future needs. My family has experienced such incredible and support from people being the hands and feet of Jesus, and, because of them, right now my faith remains strong. I wrestle through these complex questions, but it is abundantly clear that we have our daily bread, that God is providing and caring for us, and that we will get through this. I cannot thank our community enough for all they have done. You have eclipsed this horribly dark and tragic time with light and love and I am amazed and humbled at all of this. Thank you.

Tips for Communicating with Someone in Mourning

Acknowledging the situation is better than avoiding the topic altogether. It may be awkward to speak up, but a simple “I see you,” goes a long way 💙

June 30, 2026

God is faithful. His faithful love endures forever.

I’ve grown through the year — not that suffering is meant for one to grow, but that God can bring the blessing of growth and new perspective despite suffering. I reject the notion that anyone “needs” suffering to glean a cosmic understanding, but I acknowledge that committing to healing and renewed life can provide a beautiful glimpse into ethereal understanding.

It is better when people dwell in unity, and I miss the moments when I perceived my mother’s church as a safe place to attend. Maybe that safety was real, maybe it was an illusion. Maybe catastrophic loss changed things for the worse or perhaps it revealed a truth that was always there.

This particular Sunday was one of the most influential in my memory because of the sweet group of friends that continued to meet my family exactly where we were at. Their profound generosity and kindness shines brightly in my otherwise darkened memory: they provided for us for months. They gave sweet notes and gift cards that lasted until I returned back to work. The profound sadness and stress of losing my Momma was/is horrific to bear, but they eased that burden by ensuring that I did not need to worry about returning to work. I did not need to worry about what we would eat or how we would make it — they met those needs in the most incredible ways.

I think some supporters can feel an element of guilt because they are not sure how to support, nor do they feel that their support is enough, but support as detailed above enables more healing than supporters can imagine. People who acknowledge the loss, empathize with a griever’s perspective, and provide physical support for things we grievers can barely think about are earnest. There is nothing to be guilty about here, in fact, it’s something a griever cannot “repay.”

To a supporter, it may seem trivial that they had one honest and empathetic conversation or provided money towards a gift card or a meal while expecting nothing in return, but to a survivor this is the bread of life. This is the kindness that kept us from sinking, this is the provision that kept us eating, this is the support that allowed our mind to focus on healing from the loss instead of focusing on how we are going to afford to survive.

Kindness, compassion, and love change the world.

Kindness, compassion, and love nurture healing.

Above all, God is love.

* * * *

A deluge of questions barraged my mind back then. What was a flood dwindled to a trickle of ever-present drops of questions, much less intense but nevertheless constant. Healing harvests new worldviews, and these are my new perspectives on those old questions:

• Good fathers are supposed to protect their family. Why don’t you [God] protect mine? God is love. Love protects, but love cannot control all outcomes. My perspective on the idea that God “allows” certain outcomes was most challenged by Thomas Jay Oord’s book God Can’t, as I have previously mentioned. I believe that God gave people free will, and that people harm one another. In this specific case, it was my Momma who harmed our family [not God]. Individuals are accountable for their actions because of their free will. God is love, and love protects. If God could protect from this harm, He would.

• If Jesus is the abundant life, how could my mom die? She loved him. How much we love God and/or others does not cure, manage, or heal mental illness. People who love Jesus can be suicidal. People who love Jesus can be delusional. One’s love for God and other people is simply not enough to keep him or her alive. There is no relationship between theological beliefs and mental illness — belief or love of Jesus does not fix mental illness at all. In fact, people can put their entire hope and joy in heaven and begin to loathe this beautiful life they were given. I call this idea Christian Escapism: the belief that one’s life is altogether terrible and it would be better to unite with Christ in one’s idealized imagined heaven. Life is always a gift, life is always a blessing. We were not given the gift of life simply to die.

• If he [God] knew what Mom needed, why weren’t her needs met? Mom’s needs could have been met. She was an educated white woman in America, with more friends and connections that most people have in their lifetime. She had the resources available. She had the support available. She was capable of having her needs, whatever they were, met. Mental illness creates delusions — delusions that choices are limited, that life is altogether horrible, that our pain will always be all-consuming. It isn’t God’s fault that my Mother did not pursue life and healing, and I believe that it is as tragic to God as it is to us.

I do not fear what God allows anymore. I fear what man is capable of, and what man will choose to do with his or her freedom. I fear what people will do with their brokenness and hurt. I fear what people will do with their anger and frustration. Emotions offer so much insight into who we are as individuals: they reveal what is important to us and help us experience the fullness of life in its brevity and elation. They are a gift, but a gift that requires nurturing and tending. I fear what people will do when they do not tend to their emotions and when they do not pursue healing.

Shame and Stigma — Day 7: One Year Later

June 28, 2025

I’ve never appreciated the term “Celebration of Life,” but that’s exactly what we experienced today.

The sacred beauty of funerals presents itself in the friends who show up, the people who tune in, and the unique set of individuals determined to listen and observe the stories of a life once lived.

Today you found out how my mom died: you learned the news we wish we did not need to share. I hate that this is part of Mom’s story, and I hate that it is part of mine.

When I think back over the years, maybe every day we had with my mom since Patrick died was a miracle — maybe it was a miracle before even that. We’ll never know, and that’s severely painful.

I thought this past year was the best year of my life. I thought we were all having so much fun. It’s abysmally burdensome to reconcile, but I do know that multitudes of feelings may commingle — joy with sorrow, anger with relief, frustration with love.

As was said many times today, “May we never be defined by our worst moments.” My Momma was so beautiful, and she loved life, and she endured an unimaginable despair. Both were entirely true.

Thank you for my Momma’s beautiful Celebration of Life. She would have loved it 🩷

Daily Tip for Communicating with Someone in Mourning — Specifically for Suicide Survivors

  1. If a cause of death is not published immediately, it is likely because it is due to a highly sensitive cause of death – such as suicide – It is rude to ask the family “What happened?” prior to the family’s announcement. Curiosity is natural, but respect the family when a cause of death is not mentioned.
  2. Do not ask someone how their loved one took their life. This is also quite rude and this information rarely helps.
  3. Do not ask if “foul play” was involved. Suicide is one of the harshest ways someone can die — a survivor of suicide wishes more than anything else that their loved one did not take their life.
  4. Do not ask if their loved one left a note.

Everyone wants to make sense of a horrible situation, but most questions of this nature are extremely insensitive to suicide survivors.

Future Ways to Help

Listen. Create a safe space for the wounded. A survivor may want to share details such as how their loved one died, this is a privilege and not a right. This sacred information should be honored with respect and reverence.

Reminder for the GoFund Me set up for my Daddy. Our family has an immense amount of trauma to rehabilitate from.

Thank you for loving my Momma 💙

June 28, 2026

I wrote in 2025 that Momma would have loved her celebration of life, but one of her alleged closest friends told us that Mom would have hated it because we evidentially chose the wrong speakers.

I had another family member tell me that it was absolutely horrible that they [who is they??] “forced” us to speak at the funeral. That family member insinuated that it was cruel to make us speak, but really all that the individual did was insult us.

To clarify, we actually did not choose any of the speakers other than my Mom’s boss at that time, but those that did speak did a beautiful job. We offered to allow anyone from Mom’s family to speak and to our food friends the Wallace’s. No one “forced” me and my siblings to speak… we wanted to honor my mom by telling the world about her.

Some have the luxury of not understanding what it’s like to survive suicide and/or traumatic loss — that’s a blessing, but it’s unfortunately a blessing that often causes people to become incredibly insensitive.

* * * *

I had no memory of which date my Mom’s funeral took place, but I suppose it must have been June 28th based on this post.

We held our breath, waiting for the world to discover that Mom took her life.

Suicide stigma prevents many families from sharing with the world the truth of their loved one’s death. When my brother Patrick died, my parents and siblings were instructed that we were not allowed to share with anyone that he committed suicide. This added an unbelievable amount of difficulty, shame, and confusion to an already awful situation.

When you do tell people the cause of death, the first question the majority ask is “Do you think it was murder?” because it’s terribly difficult to accept the betrayal, violence, and incongruity of suicide. This is an incredibly painful question because survivors, more than anything, wish their loved one died in any other way. It’s hard enough to comprehend the suicide, it’s even harder to explain to additional people that “no, it was not murder. It was suicide.”

I once heard that the book of Job was written to demonstrate that when catastrophic loss enters one’s life, a lot of people will come out of the woodwork to tell you their insensitive opinions. The idea makes me laugh, as only we survivors can understand.

* * * *

Shame and stigma is not talking about how she died.

Shame and stigma is blaming the survivors or any other organization connected to the one who died.

Shame and stigma is spreading gossip.

Shame and stigma is asking if it was murder.

Shame and stigma is saying “if [I or you] had done _____ differently, she would have lived.”

Shame and stigma is judging someone who expresses suicidal tendencies by saying he or she is “just saying that for attention.”

Shame and stigma is calling people with mental illness and/or experiencing trauma dramatic.

Shame and stigma is implying the family “should have seen the signs.”

Shame and stigma is treating the family differently because of the suicide.

Shame and stigma is comparing “normal” loss to suicide.

Shame and stigma is saying that prayer and time in God’s word will erase sadness, mental illness, and anxiety.

Shame and stigma is not acknowledging the complexity of suicide.

Shame and stigma is avoiding survivors to protect an organization’s reputation.

Shame and stigma is saying that God “allowed” or “ordained” this.

Shame and stigma is the workplace expecting survivors to return as “normal.”

Shame and stigma is sharing the police report.

Shame and stigma is community speculation about “what really happened.”

Shame and stigma is egotistical responses judging survivors for decisions made within the first days, weeks, and years of the death.

* * * *

Funerals are sacred. They require nearly as much planning as a wedding, in a fraction of the time, without true celebration: death isn’t meant to be rejoiced or celebrated. It is life that is a gift, and death that is cursed.

Funerals are sacred because they’re the closest we are to being between two realms — the realm of earth and life and all we know, and the realm of the unknown dead. Universes collide in this sacred space. A life is recognized, honored, and mourned.

May we commit to compassion towards losses we may never understand. May we forgive and show mercy to those who have harmed [intentionally or unintentionally] us.

Above all, may we love one another well.

May we fight to see another’s perspective, and may we honor how their experiences have affected them.

May we give grace upon grace upon grace, knowing that we too need grace and compassion every day.

Drowning in Tears — Day 2: One Year Later

June 22, 2025

I answered most of my messages sometime between 3 and 5 AM, messages so sweet and so thoughtful, and then I fell asleep once more and woke drenched in tears.

There’s a difference in seeing support and experiencing it: meal after meal delivered, my home cleaned by sweet friends, people hugging us through tears.

We went to church today, twice actually, and it was so sweet and healing.

My mom devoted herself to her family and to so many — we’re benefiting from all the lives she touched. She loved them well, and now they’re loving us well.

People brought us meals immediately, but to be held by so many filled me with thanksgiving and sorrow.

I’ve always loved alone time, but right now it’s too hard — I took a bath today, thinking it would be relaxing, but I rushed out of it because the quiet was too overwhelming. Did she know I loved her? Was I a bad daughter? Too many thoughts haunt me, and my tears seemed to drown me in the tub.

“My Momma, my Momma, my Momma,” I can’t stop mumbling.

It’s excruciatingly painful. Incommunicably hard.

We feel so supported and we feel so loved. We’re all saturated in tears.

I loved my Momma.

June 22, 2026

Oof, it’s ironic to read this one. That first day back at church was sweet — it was one day of corporate mourning, never spoken of again from the pulpit.

It was nearly one year before I heard from the church’s executive staff — they sent a thoughtful card and flowers last week, which was kind.

I’ve regained my love for solitude and can process the pain in silence now. I remember how scary and painful that first bath was. It is really impossible to communicate the sheer horror of surviving suicide. I have never experienced a more poignant fear than the fear of living through suicide.

When I was young, long before death arrived my doorstep. I used to ponder the verse about how God records our tears in a bottle (Psalm 56:8). I imagine that I had one of the largest bottles imaginable that was a naïve thought, there are many with pain beyond my own imagination, but back then I couldn’t imagine anyone was more pain than me.

My mother did not take kindly to my tears, so I had to hide them from her. Perhaps one’s inability to allow another’s crying and natural sadness is one of the first signs that someone is mentally unwell. I had to find places to shelter my sadness. I often called them my “crying corners.” if you went to middle school or high school with me, he probably remembered one of my crying corners at home, I would sit in the corner of my tiny closet and put the clothes over my face to muffle my tears.

I have a walk-in closet now, and though I do not need to hide my tears from my husband, my closet remains my favorite place to the to allow my emotions freely flow. 

Scott began this puzzle on June 22, 2025, and now it’s finished and hanging in our living room. These simple things mark the passage of time and the new lives she’s forced us to build without her.

I will cry for these things forever, and my tears are proof that she existed. They are proof of her love, and proof of my love for her.

Ground Zero — Day 1: One Year Later

June 21, 2025

Ground zero.

I’m always amazed how much pain people can endure when faced with suffering.


I woke to notes of encouragement, sorrow, and prayer. My breathing fails, my eyes swarm with tears, and my body heaves with the weight of my mind.

“My Momma. My Momma. My Momma. I loved my Momma,” I chant in a voice choked by emotions and tears — words barely able to escape my mind and reach the outside world.

My Momma is gone, and she’s not coming back. My Daddy, my Daddy. My Daddy☹️ I can barely move. I don’t know how to function, “My Momma. My Momma. My Momma,” I mumble.

How do I reconcile this? It doesn’t make any sense. I know I’ll be angry with God for that sometime later, but today I’m just trying to survive. All I want to do is be with my Daddy and my brothers.

I can’t walk 20 steps without sobbing: “My momma, my Momma, my Momma.”

All I want is my Momma.

One Year Later

June 21, 2026

Photographs poured in from across the globe, beginning the day after she died. It was loud back then, with the whole world feeling ripples from the explosion that was the epicenter of my family’s universe.

It’s quiet today and still: we live among the ashes.

Interestingly, I did not become angry with God like I had predicted one year ago. That surprises me — I was very angry with him after Patrick died — but I suppose I outgrew that perspective.

This time, anger at God was not a battle I needed to wrestle through. I haven’t written much about God, but I’ve talked about him with many.

I’ve come to view God as far more compassionate and loving, and remembered Christ as he was known — as a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. God as the savior who heals, God as the creator who gave abundant life, Christ who came to demonstrate a greater way to live on earth.

This life — my beautiful, tragical, emotional, unforgettable life — is such a gift. My family is everything, my relationships are everything, my experiences are everything.

I sat by one of my nieces this week and allowed a tender tear to grace my cheek, simply in awe of the fact that this precious little life loves me simply for being in her life. It’s an overwhelming amount of love. The joy and the beauty of simply being together, surrounded by my sweet family, thinking how wonderful it is to love them and to be loved by them.

I cannot imagine walking out of my nieces and nephews lives like my mother, aunt, and grandparents walked out of ours. They’re withholding and missing out on so much love.

That’s not God’s fault, it’s theirs.

We each have choices of whether to harm one another or to love one another, and unhealthy thought patterns ultimately lead to death in one sense or another. We are free to make our choices, for better or for worse.

Now, I’ve walked miles without sobbing “My momma, my Momma, my Momma.” I knew it was possible back then, but it was incomprehensible at that time.

It is astounding how much pain people can endure; it’s unbelievable how much pain I have endured. People often try to comfort or maybe explain [I think??] by saying “She [Momma] was in so much pain,” but her pain didn’t end: it transferred to we who survive, giving us a trauma she did not have to live through.

Love is eternal, and so is loss.

Perhaps there is a grand reunion in the afterlife, but we living will carry Momma’s loss until we too take our final breath.

Her love endures. Her loss endures. In some ways, she endures too, her blood coursing through our veins.

Her loss is irreconcilable, and it isn’t meant to be. Mommas aren’t supposed to leave their babies. People aren’t supposed to choose their deaths.

Life is hard, but our endurance should be celebrated. Our lives should be celebrated.

One year later, glimpses of life flutter from ground zero. All that is gray and dark does not last forever.

Week 51

Fifty one.

My mom turned fifty one 21 days before she killed herself…. How sick, to murder oneself. Ugh. It’s so… abrasive.

Fifty one — we called it “Fifty Fun.” I coined the term, but Mom thought Scott made it up. Scott & I laughed about that at the time. She just adored Scott; he reminded him a lot of herself, with his optimism and lighthearted demeanor. Now these similarities scare me about Scott sometimes… Isn’t that sad?

“She was supposed to be ‘fifty fun’ not ‘ fifty done,’”I’ve often repeated to myself this year.

Grief rips apart one’s sense of time and space. It’s been almost a year since my mom died, but it feels like it’s been a decade. Others think the year went by fast. It’s seemed like an eternity. Pieces of me feel like I never had a Mom — I feel so far from her, it’s like she was part of someone else’s life. It couldn’t possibly been my life.

The sun and the moon and the tides testify to time’s reality, but it’s simultaneously a construct. A way to measure our days, with seasons to mark the harvests and the plentiful and the droughts.

Time moves quickly when we enjoy our lives, slowly when we’re bored, and halts when we’re suffering.

Suffering refines and illuminates what matters, while healing ensures one concludes with the right perspective.

It seems as though nothing matters when one’s suffering. For example — from my skewed and insecure perspective — nothing I’ve done matters.

It didn’t matter that I loved Patrick.

It didn’t matter that I loved my Momma.

It doesn’t matter that I love my grandparents.

It doesn’t matter that I loved my former pastors.

My kindness and my love, in the end, didn’t matter to any of them. They’re still gone. They’re still dead, in one way or another.

The letters I wrote them didn’t matter. My forgiveness doesn’t matter. My kindness doesn’t matter.

I can do all the “right” things and remain punished by others’ decisions. In a sense, nothing I do matters.

Nothing I did matters.

They chose this, they did this, and nothing I did deserved that.

So… nothing I do matters.

* * * *

And yet… it all matters. Maybe it didn’t matter to them, maybe it did in some ways, but ultimately it didn’t.

Healing reminds me that it all mattered — it all matters.

I’ve experienced how much kindness matters. Again and again and again, people extend kindness and grace and support, and others’ actions matters. If others’ kindness and cruelty matter, mine does too.

Many have said that my words matter. Sometimes it’s difficult to see how one’s actions matter when he or she experiences so much pain because of another’s actions.

Sorrow rips apart time and space, too. How hard it is, then, to see one’s importance and brilliance in a world clouded with such potent pains.

* * * *

She was beautiful, she was real, she was my Momma.

She loved me, but that didn’t matter either. It did and it didn’t.

Week 49.1

The worst part about our estrangement from Mom’s church is all the innocent bystanders… walking in and embracing all the wonderful people we used to engage with every Sunday. All the people who loved my mom, all people — especially people that aren’t on the executive staff there, who tried their best to help facilitate healing and not injuring — that we’ve lost access to because of a few people’s poor and cruel decisions. None of this was their fault. None of this was my fault, either. We didn’t ask for this.

There have been an abundant people from Mom’s church, staff members and congregants, who have been amazing and who have done their best in this terrible situation to reach out and extend their love. I’ve gotten messages and letters and all sorts of sweet notes.

I spent the last nine months (about when we found out about the sinister plans) fearing for my life and the lives of my family members because of my grandparents and the church’s leadership. Fearing that anytime I connect with someone from that church — will they tell the executive staff something about my life? Will the staff tell my grandparents? Will someone use this connection to hurt me and my family? Because they want to hurt me and my family.

When safety becomes a major concern it relationships, it’s best to leave those relationships, and that hurts most for the people who didn’t want to hurt us. For the people who didn’t know about any of this, all because of the few people who did know. All because of the few people who did hurt, and they hurt intentionally. Calculatedly. Coldly. Cruelly.

For a long time, I kept the majority and the specifics quiet because I didn’t want things to get worse. I don’t know what these people are capable of, because what they have done astonishes me.

The worst part about all of it is missing so many of you, and missing them too. Because you don’t stop loving people just because they hurt you. I really, really loved these people.

But love protects. It doesn’t intentionally inflict harm.

Love shelters. Love seeks the best of its beloved. Love heals.

Love doesn’t do what they did.

So many relationships were lost because of my grandparents and my aunt. They wanted that, and my Mom’s executive staff [likely unintentionally] partnered with them to accomplish it.

I didn’t stop going to Mom’s church because it was too painful — I felt I had to stop going for the safety of me and my family, and that is horrific and tragic.

* * * *

I miss many of you. I miss your smiles, I miss your hugs, I miss the way you would have brought healing.

I know you miss my Mom, too. I know you miss us. I haven’t forgotten you, and I cherish the ways you long to show up for us.

I’m sorry for the hurt this has caused you, too. I would have liked to mourn with you in tears and in embraces, instead of through messages and comments.

* * * *

My grandparents and aunt attempted to ruin my life and the lives of my family members. They won’t. I’m not hiding anymore, and I’m not continuing to cover up what has been done.

I’m not afraid of them.

I love them, and I do miss my grandparents. I miss having an extended family that I thought loved me, but perhaps they were simply glad to see their genetics reflect back at them in my smiles.

* * * *

I’m not bitter. I am sorrowful. I am disappointed. I am perplexed.

I work on forgiving them everyday, like my brother Sawyer wrote, “radical forgiveness.”

Forgiveness always comes with a cost: it surrenders justice and vengeance in pursuit of mercy. It says “I’m okay with letting this go,” while deeply hurting. It’s wrestling with injustice, while watching the offender carry on as if all is well. It’s the mental weight of knowing that an offense will never be made right, accepting that, and choosing to live a full life inspire of it.

I forgive my grandparents, aunt, and church leadership, but I will not entrust my heart and my life to them. She loved them and spent her life protecting their flaws and serving them.* I won’t make that same mistake.

*Note: I do not blame my grandparents, aunt, or her church’s leadership for my mother’s suicide. If you are being abused and mistreated, seek help. The crisis like is 988.

Also, it’s really not necessary or helpful to call the church enraged about anything I have posted. They’ll reach out to me to complain that I wrote anything and that you reached out to them. Just forgive them with me. They didn’t know what to do, they weren’t prepared for any of this.

To the church leadership — Sorry if you get a bunch of calls or some reaction out of all of this. Not my intention. But, this really happened. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t to protect your egos.

Week 49

There’s an ache in my chest that reminds me you’re gone.

It sits with me all through the day and greets me at dawn.

Birthdays pose a conundrum when people die. How strange and liminal they feel… there’s naught to celebrate, but it was once such an important day.

Many adults hate their birthdays — I’ve always resented that — because our society tantalizes the fear of aging, as if growing old is not something miraculous. As if living a full life is not something to celebrate, as if gray hair and wrinkles aren’t something beautiful that we earn as we triumph through this tumultuous life.

I often tell people that birthdays — just like weddings — aren’t really about the individual. They are, and they’re not. They’re really a chance for others to celebrate one’s life: other people love your birthday, other people love celebrating you, because they love you. It’s a chance for others to gather around you and demonstrate their love.

Once they die, however, birthdays become solemn days. What is there to celebrate, if not the one to celebrate?

My mom sometimes made a cake on Patrick’s birthday, and that felt odd, but what else is one to do?

Last spring, she was with her parents’ in an allegedly great trip. But oh, we can’t contact them because they decided to try to sue us. So loving of them, right? how nice for your grandparents and aunt to try to sue you after your mom dies.

Her church threw her a cute Hawaiian-themed party at work, but not once did her pastor reach out to us after she died. And it’s not safe to contact them, either, because they’ve been in constant communication with my grandparents… who tried [are trying??] to sue us. The two executives who did reach out to us? Ah yes, had dinner with one and never heard from them again. Had dinner with another, and that individual told me that they needed to read my blogs before I post them because they don’t like the phone calls they get when I do mention something about them. I laughed. Oh, and apparently they didn’t appreciate the guest speakers at my Mom’s funeral. We chose the wrong people, I guess, just a couple days after my Mom died.

No mom, no grandparents, no church. Oh, how different this year looks from last.

Like I wrote a few weeks back, if they can treat me this poorly, what did they do to her?

Happy Birthday, Mom. Thanks for all this. I am sorry for whatever they did to you, because what they’ve done to us is horrific, and I’m sick of keeping their secrets. Lies and secrets kill people.

Week 41

I don’t think it’s very miraculous that we can’t kill a God — I don’t think it’s miraculous that Jesus rose from the grave. It’s miraculous that we murdered the son of God and that he loves us anyway.

Jesus didn’t come to this earth to die — he came to embody love. He came to see the marginalized, to be with the hurting, to heal the broken… and humanity killed him for that.

Of course we can’t kill a god.

I think we’ve missed the point, focusing on his resurrection as if we really had the power to vanquish the creator of life.

The miracle isn’t that he died, the miracle is that he came and then he returned when mankind treated him atrociously. The miracle is that he knew he’d be treat maliciously and he still chose to love us. The miracle is his love and compassion and grace and dignity. The miracle isn’t that mankind couldn’t kill God, the miracle is that he came back.

We’ve missed the why.

Jesus came to offer us a glorious life where we live in community, care for the marginalized, and aid in one another’s healing and he came back even when it killed him. He came and he returned to love.

Love never ends.

You cannot kill it, you cannot deny it, you cannot avoid it, you cannot pretend it doesn’t exist. Love is eternal. It transcends space, time, memory, life, and even death.

We feel tortured and agonized and anguished in grief because sorrow is love’s winter: grief is the other side of love, because love is endless and unfathomable. Love does not end in death — that is why grief stays with us forever, because love is eternal.

Mankind cannot kill Jesus, not eternally, because Jesus is love, and love cannot be killed… just like how a god cannot be killed. Mankind absolutely murdered Jesus, but you can’t obliterate something eternal. It’s not possible, and, therefore the resurrection isn’t miraculous. The miracle is that he loves people despite the fact that we murdered him.

In the Christian world, the Easter season seems to glorify death. There’s nothing beautiful about murder. There’s nothing good about Good Friday — nothing at all. Jesus didn’t have to die to save us, Jesus died because he was murdered. As Peter declared, “You denied the Holy and Righteous One… You killed the source of life” and God raised him from the dead (Acts 3:14-15).

In his own words, Jesus said “I have come so that they may have life and have it in abundance” (John 10:10). He said this to his murderers and to the people who despised him. Our miracle isn’t his resurrection, it’s his love for us.

* * * *

I’ve grown to despise the Christian — perhaps the Western — glorification of death. I reject it, and it sickens me.

Yes, this is the first Easter without my Mom. She always called it “Resurrection Sunday.” She still made us Easter baskets, she even made Scott one too.

This time of year is terribly triggering for me. I spent Easter 2019 in the hospital with Patrick. I found him at a hotel, passed out and over dosed. I called 911 and they pumped his stomach. My roommate dropped me off at the hospital and I spent the night there with him as he came off of his high.

He was shocked I stayed the whole night, and I was saddened that he would be so shocked. I told him that he’s my brother, I loved him, and I would not leave him like that. He asked me if I really believed that God could set people free (John 8:36), and I sang to him Hillsong’s rendition of “Who You Say I Am.” I was 21, I felt 60 that night. I told my roommate a few days later I wasn’t sure how he could keep living like this. I pondered that the alcohol or hallucinogens would end him, but I never would have imagined that he would commit suicide less than 10 days later.

Spring ushers a multitude of mourning: Easter, my sweet friend Walter’s death, Patrick’s death, Mother’s Day, Mother’s birthday, Mother’s death.

I mourn the dead, and I mourn the living: I mourn my grandparents and my Mother’s church. Sometimes it feels like they killed me, too.

* * * *

Good Friday and Easter are about so much more than a deity’s life and death: it’s about a murder and a radical love that changed the world.

Stop glorifying death. It’s killing us.

Week 40

This sadness sits comfortably in my chest, cavernous in my heart. It’s poignant darkness and chill courses through my body and sometimes escapes from my eyes, but most of the time it stirs beneath the surface ever-present and ever demanding I acknowledge it and tend to it.

This sorrow upholds me, it caresses me and comforts me. Sorrow is love’s winter: we experience sorrow because we love. It’s love gone cold, love that’s missing its object of affection, love that persists after loss.

I’ve ponder the irony of 40 weeks since my brother said “Nine months, that’s how long it takes for a baby to be born” last week. Instead, no babies, just reminders of death everywhere. In this Easter season of budding life, our days are shrouded in death. Life and babies and joy and resurrection, only to be left motherless and childless and filled with death.

What are we, we children with no mothers?

It’s love that is eternal, it’s memory that crosses the bounds of time. The dead exist vividly in our minds and in our memories, and our love for them connects us when their bodies have returned to the earth.

Emotions are, eternal, uncontrollable, inevitable, and inherent. Emotions may make us feel trapped or elated, delighted or dismayed. Feelings aren’t the problem. Emotions are not positive or negative, they or not bad or good. Some feelings are painful, some are delightful, some give heart palpitations. There is no good or bad here, there is simply the human experience and the emotions that allow you to embody the depth of the universe.

Nothing is wrong with your feelings. Nothing is wrong with you. Feelings/emotions indicate what is and isn’t important, what we do and don’t like, what is and isn’t okay. Emotions demand to be felt, acknowledged, and tended to. Pretending they don’t exist doesn’t help. Punishing oneself for their existence doesn’t help. Minimizing them doesn’t help.

Sadness, anger, grief, anxiety, and a litany of other emotions belong to you. They are part of you, they are kind indicators of your experience and they must be tended to, given a seat at the table, brought before a trusted community, and validated. It’s in safety and acknowledgment that we begin to heal.

Yes, this sadness sits with me. Yes, this pain washes over me. I deeply feel all that is not right in my life because none of this is okay.

Mothers aren’t supposed to leave their babies.

Grandparents aren’t supposed to exploit their children and sue their grandchildren.

Aunts aren’t supposed to destroy families.

Churches aren’t supposed to act like their staff member’s life was a stain on their reputation, and punish her family in the process.

Brothers aren’t supposed to cut their lives short.

Stigmatization of suicide survivors isn’t supposed to exist.

But all these things happen, and the only way to heal from it is to acknowledge how much it isn’t okay and to find true support.

Your feelings are not a curse, they are meant to protect you and guide you into tender and caring spaces.

So, I sit with my sadness and I allow it to comfort me. I allow it to teach me what I need to feel whole in my world that is so broken. Emotions take us where words cannot reach: I free my sadness to take whatever form it needs, and I free myself to heal from incommunicable hurts.

40 weeks of death, so many decades of life. Oh, how strange are these numbers and milestones that mar us.

Week 39

How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.

Ryan O’Neal, creator of Sleeping at Last, composes astoundingly beautiful melodies with profoundly deep lyrics and is thus one of my favorite artists. His ballad Saturn hosts the aforementioned lyrics. O’Neal pens reflective songs portraying the ornate nature of life, drawing imagery from astronomy, personality, faith, and earth.

Lately, I’ve been pondering about life’s beauty and tragedy. Too often we hear the derogatory phrases about our existence; “Well, that’s life,” as if the universe demands we be disappointed, “Life sucks,” “Life is hard,” and a deluge of other cliches with similar messages. We create an undertone of disaster and negativity with these phrases, yet they simultaneously minimize the struggle. “That’s life [so stop complaining].” “Life sucks [so move on].” “Life is hard [so stop expecting anything different].”

One of my greatest passions is normalizing the depth of the human experience through delineating natural emotions, and I’m an immense proponent in admitting how painful life can be, but I’m drawn to the simple truth of O’Neal’s words. How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.

We teach one another that growing up is painful, but we say it as if that’s “just the way it is.” Life isn’t painful because God or the universe or some force is out to get us — life is painful because other human beings hurt us and because we often hurt ourselves, too.

Life is not bad, life is not hard. People’s choices are bad and they make it hard. Sometimes our choices are bad, and it makes life hard, too. But life at its core is not hard — life is a gift.

Life is precious. We see this in the beauty of new life, we see this in the dignity of a life well lived, we experience this in the relationships that give us life. Life is not to be condemned but to be loved, shared, explored, and freed.

I reject the concept that life is hard. Yes, so many things in our lives produce unfathomable amounts of pain that we will carry with us forever, but that truth does not negate that life is a gift.

In this life, we have ample opportunity to heal, to change, to love, to grow, and to enjoy this one beautiful gift that we have. It is our responsibility to ourselves and to one another to tend to our lives. In taking care of ourselves, in knowing what we want and need from life and acting on that, we transform our lives and undoubtedly positively impact the lives of those around us.

Life is hard because people make it hard. Life is hard because people hurt us, neglect us, betray us, and wound us. Life is hard because we ourselves, too, make choices that hurt ourselves, neglect ourselves, betray ourselves, and wound ourselves. May we remember that our lives, each, are gifts to ourselves and to one another.

We have got to stop talking about how life is terrible and how life is tragic and how Life/God/The Universe exists to make us miserable. That narrative is killing us. Life is not about suffering. The purpose of life is not in suffering. Loss and hurt and wounds are powerful and they drastically impact our lives, but life is so much more than our heartbreaks.

May we engage in life’s beauty, tragedy, and lightheartedness. May we enjoy what life has offered us and the goodness that life brings us. May you heal from the people who hurt you and may you heal from the ways you have hurt yourself.

Your life is precious, your days are your opportunities to change your world. Life is not out to get you. God is not punishing you. The universe is not hurting you. People hurt you, you hurt you, but that is not the final say in your story.

Your life is beautiful and your ability to change your world will change the world for the better, if you let it.

May we remember how rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.