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

Faith endures, but my address to God is uncomfortably, perplexingly, altered. I must explore The Lament as a mode for my address to God.

So many unanswered questions I had brought along with me. The foremost question I had was, “How does a mother heal after losing a child?”

It's the 7th day of Christmas - and here I sit with my head quite a flutter, while amassed all around me is a large pile of clutter!

Those we have loved, though now beyond our view, live on, unfailingly feeding our hearts and minds and imaginations. (Morris Adler)

We at Sacred Sorrows join Sarah in remembering, "your sorrow is not overlooked by God." May this prayer give you comfort during the holiday.

Looking back, I think we were afraid of what we might discover. My world and focus had narrowed, and I was restless, unable to take a breath

A comforting poem.

Five things that I wish another grieving mom would have told me that first Thanksgiving.

I was at my wit's end attempting to get lasting relief from my grief. Thankfully, the retreat was much more than "more of the same."

I've got lots of stories, but do I share "the story" when I don't know if those present have experienced what I have?

When I was 12, I nearly drowned in the deep end of the wave pool. In my worst moments of grief, I'm back in those waves.

Inside was a grey blanket----silky, and so inviting to cuddle. I wrapped it around me and said, "Thank you for the early Mother's Day gift."

Over time, watching and listening to them talk about the roses was a secret joy. Where are they? Where are my roses? What are they up to?

I have been grieving the loss of my only son now for 12 years. It doesn't feel like that long.

A beautiful poem by Jan Richardson Let us agree for now that we will not say the breaking makes us stronger or that it is better to have...

I remember every critical thing I've ever said to her. I hurt her feelings so many times. I know I'm not the only one who wants a do-over.

The thing about the birthdate since my son died is that it's turned into a thing. Like a real "thing." Odd. Unsettling. I don't like it.

Lent isn't the same since my son died. Since then, every day is a little Lenten-ish. Day after day. It's not a bad thing. Just a real thing.

Rain can bring flowers. In a storm like the one on Kuai, it was more like a river of uncontrollable sobbing. I know both feelings.