By the second Sunday of Lent, the ashes have settled in. The sting of “remember you are dust” has softened into something quieter. We are no longer at the doorway of the season. We are inside it now. Walking it. And almost every year, right about here, I find myself holding a birthday. The birthday of my deceased son. It's a strange and holy practice of remembering. Ashes and light. Dust and glory. The world marked an ending. God marked a beginning.

It's the end of January, and I made it through the second set of holidays without my son Eli. I don't have all the words to express how hard it was. But, with God's help and the help of the resources He's put on my path, I was able to make room. For love, peace, hope and holiday preparations. And for grief, sadness, and longing for my son. I am not sure how it all fit in my heart and soul, but it did. And then came the New Year...

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.

"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.

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

Our recent "Mother's Love & Loss" retreat on the beautiful grounds of the Jesuit Retreat Center in Los Altos Hills deeply impacted the...

What are you giving up for Lent?

The conversations I have with others since my son Chad died can be quite surreal. I recently observed (in an out-of-body sort of way) the...

1. Stay. Don’t Run. It takes courage to be present to a friend in circumstances this difficult. Be courageous. Answer the telephone when...