Outside the camper, birds cry out, upset about the pending weather. Around here, lightning flashes and thunder booms without rain, but tonight's forecast calls for a downpour. I like to watch storms, feel the wild electric energy, smell the earth. I think of last January, when the ring tone snuck through my Do Not Disturb setting. Like the storm, you don't know the damage until it's over. The things that might have been.

The walks are flat on these country lanes. Around the pond, past the field, stopping at the horses. I walk, write and think about my son. I still cry every day, but not as hard and not as long. It doesn't hurt as much, somewhere else, somewhere new - in this unfamiliar land.

Organic baby food, daily walks in the sunshine, nursery rhymes and Beatrix Potter books, baths and naps made up those days of that first year. I was proud and happy and oh-so-in-love. It seemed as if my whole life had been a waiting time for my motherhood to begin. Fast forward to the present, where I find myself in a journaling workshop series that Sacred Sorrows is offering for mothers who have lost a child. We reflect and journal about our grief and about our struggle to g

When I lost my son, Kevin, my life changed in an instant. He was suddenly gone, and I didn’t know how to cope. My background as a licensed clinical social worker taught me about many different life problems but it did not prepare me for this. I decided to learn all I could about grief to help myself and, eventually, other bereaved mothers. I knew I had to address the intense emotion - to "feel it to heal it". But where should one begin? I discovered writing and the expressive

It isn't a Chicago winter and it isn't 36 years ago. But that's where I'm at right now, watching a blizzard as my newborn sleeps peacefully.

It all started with a little end-of-year tidying up weirdness. I found a small container of Tide and remembered the last time it was used...

"If you ever get the chance to love a person who knows grief, do not let them go."

Collectively our hearts broke for our sister in sacred sorrow. As grieving mothers, we understand the terrible truth.

In the midst of our grief, remember the life that was lived. And the life that was loved.

Once upon a time (and what seems like only just yesterday), I was wandering the china and crystal section of Marshall Field's in Chicago.

Much therapy and the discovery of Sacred Sorrows have helped me bind up my wounds and learn to trust Jesus again. Yet Mother's Day looms...

I couldn’t tell you what month it was, but there were daffodils, so it must have been spring. A few weeks after Alex died, I suppose.

We feel great sadness at various times in our lives--illness, loss of a job, financial problems, death, and so on...

Rather than false promises of ease and comfort, the stations of the cross direct us to the hope that comes from walking the way of suffering

God, we are heartbroken in the face of so much grief. What could we possibly call blessed?

Today is Ash Wednesday. How about moving from anything that might feel "off" and toward some semblance of what might feel "all right?"

"Mom, staying in bed is dangerous too. I'd rather take some risks than die of depression. At least if I die on the river I will have lived."

Originally posted Nov. 16, 2021. Out of nowhere, the familiar (but not always welcome) warm tears began to cascade down my face.

Seven years. Seven years later and I still don’t know whether I should be calling next weekend Ezra’s birthday or his death anniversary.

People say that grief comes in waves… sometimes you feel fine and others not.