Held in the After
What My Living Children Are Teaching Me About Grief
One afternoon, after a stretch of busy days filled with playdates, pumping sessions, sleep regressions, chores, and homeschooling, my seven-year-old, Liam, looked at me and said, “Mommy, thank you for teaching me today.”
This is our first year of homeschooling, and I often question whether I’m doing enough. I can be my own worst critic in that way. But moments like this remind me that the work I’m doing is good—holy, even. What my son doesn’t realize is that as much as I’m teaching him, he’s teaching me more. He always has.
Motherhood is funny that way—one of life’s most blessed and sanctifying journeys. It reveals the exact areas we need to grow, to surrender, to ask forgiveness. That’s been especially true in this season as I’ve walked through both grief—mourning the loss of our middle child, Marsaili,—and the tender postpartum days after welcoming our youngest, Brielle, all within the same year.
It’s humbling, really—realizing that as I care for them, something about their joy, their need, their nearness is also quietly caring for me. Not because they mean to, but because God is using their presence to heal what grief broke.
As I’ve worked to navigate this season with grace, my children are always teaching me. Teaching me to slow down. To show myself mercy. To grieve fully, and even with joy.
These are some of the lessons they’ve been teaching me lately. Maybe you’re not grieving a child. Maybe your sorrow looks different, but still valid. I hope these little reminders bring you a small breath of peace today. The presence of these children teaches us. Grounds us. And gives us glimpses of grace and of Christ.
1. Slowness is Sacred
My husband, Josh, sent me an Instagram post recently that said, “What if those babies that don’t want to be put down are God’s way of forcing us to slow down?” It brought tears to my eyes.
Brielle is five months old, and I often call her my “velcro baby.” Of all three of our children, she has shown the most resistance to being put down for any length of time. It’s improved in the last month or so, but she’s absolutely a snuggle bug—especially with her mommy.
This has been a challenge for me in many ways. I’m a mom trying to balance a lot: caring for our home, tending to a baby, homeschooling Liam, and remembering to care for myself, too. On the days when Brielle insists on being held (sometimes for hours at a time), I find myself growing frustrated or restless.
I should be doing more. The laundry is piling up. I can’t just sit here. We’re going to fall behind.
I’ve realized I tend to treat grief the same way:
Why am I crying again? Why can’t I just be more energized? Why does this still hurt so much? I should be better by now.
But grief is not something to be rushed. It isn’t a race. It isn’t a place to feel shame for “being behind.”
Slowness can be—and often is—sacred.
Children move at their own pace. Grief demands the same.
David speaks to this in the Psalms when he writes:
“The Lord is my shepherd;
I have what I need.
He lets me lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside quiet waters.
He renews my life;
He leads me along the right paths
for His name’s sake.”
(Psalm 23:1–3, CSB)
Let yourself lie down in green pastures. Embrace the sacred stillness.
2. Grief Doesn’t Need to Be Fixed.
“Hey Mommy, I just came to check on you. You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
Liam said this to me one night as I was tucking our youngest into bed. It had been a particularly hard day. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember this: Josh wasn’t home to help with bedtime, the day had been full of frustrations, and I felt completely spent.
And then this quiet moment became a core memory.
He didn’t try to fix anything. He simply offered his presence. With a childlike sincerity, he met me in my weariness and let me know I was seen. No expectations. No pressure to feel better. Just a whisper of God’s tenderness wrapped in the voice of a seven-year-old boy.
He didn’t know it, but he was modeling the very heart of Christ—“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).
Grief doesn’t need to be fixed. It needs to be felt. Held. Honored.
It needs presence—not solutions. Gentle reminders that we are not alone.
We deserve to have people sit with us, even in silence. To be met with the same comfort that the Lord offers—steady, kind, and close.
3. I Am Not Damaged or Broken Beyond Repair.
I have to remind myself often that my grief does not mean I am damaged. I am not broken beyond repair.
That truth is hard to remember in the quiet moments—when the ache settles in and whispers otherwise. But my children’s laughter reminds me. Their joy pulls me back into the light. It tells me I am still capable of joy, connection, and deep love, even on the hardest days.
Just two days before Marsaili died, my mother-in-law brought Liam to the hospital to visit her one last time. The nurses and child life specialists spent the afternoon helping us make memory gifts—handprints, heartbeat recordings, and other keepsakes I now treasure. At that point, Marsaili was on only the most basic oxygen settings for comfort, and we were carefully watching her vitals.
The moment Liam walked into the room and started talking, her vitals shifted. Her heart rate rose. Her oxygen saturation improved. And she smiled—she cooed. Marsaili was blind, but she always knew when Liam was near.
Even at the end, her joy made room for his presence. And his presence brought joy right back to her.
Last week, I was folding laundry when I heard Brielle waking up from a nap. Before I could get to her, Liam walked into her room. I heard him greet her, and then—clear as day from across the hall—I heard her laugh.
She doesn’t laugh often yet. She really makes Josh and me work for it. But for Liam? She giggles freely.
It struck me in that moment: the same little boy who brought comfort to his dying sister now brings laughter to his baby one. And in between them both, I stand—cracked by grief, yes, but still standing.
Still receiving joy. Still receiving love. Still part of the story.
Their laughter reminds me: I am not done. I am not damaged beyond repair. God is still mending. Still meeting me. Still making things new.
He meets us in our brokenness—but He does not leave us there.
4. Healing Doesn’t Always Look Like Answers
On a regular basis, our son asks one of the hardest questions to answer:
“Mommy, why did Marsaili have to die? I wish she was still here.”
I respond the same way every time. I remind him that she had disabilities that made her prone to sickness, that she fought so hard, that doctors did all they could, but that her body became very tired. And without fail, he follows with the same question:
“…but Mommy, why did God have to make her different?”
And I always answer honestly: “I’m not sure, buddy. But she is healed now with Jesus, and we’ll see her again one day.”
I found peace with these truths long before Marsaili was even born. I don’t know why God chose this particular path for her—or for us. But I trust that someday (maybe not on this side of Heaven), He will show us. He is sovereign over all things—every breath, every heartbeat, every sorrow. I don’t need to understand the reasons for my pain in order to trust that God’s will is perfect and that His love for us is unshakable. For now, we are learning to find healing in the absence of tidy answers. He has not abandoned us in our grief; He walks with us through it, carrying us when we are too weak to stand.
That healing doesn’t usually come all at once. More often, it arrives in small doses. Sometimes it looks like chalk footprints trailing in from the back patio. Sometimes it’s sticky fingers grabbing my face during nighttime bottle feeds. Sometimes it’s whispered bedtime prayers. My personal favorite is:
“God bless Mommy and Daddy, Mimi and Grandpa, Mimi and Papi, Nana and Papa, Jonathan and KK, Tyler and Bella, Becky, Baby Marsaili, Baby Emmy, Brielle, and Liam, the coolest guy in the land, Amen.”
The lack of answers to our big “why” questions doesn’t mean God isn’t near. His quiet in our confusion doesn’t mean absence. More often than not, it’s in these uncertain moments that I find myself leaning into the childlike faith my children so effortlessly display—resting in what I know of God’s goodness, His marvelousness, and His mystery, as He gently puts the pieces of my heart back together, one bit at a time.
5. Forward Motion is Heavy and Holy
Just after Marsaili passed away last year, we decided to get away for a few days at the beach. I’ll never forget the intense anxiety I felt as we drove several hours from home for the first time in three years. It felt like I was abandoning her—even though I wasn’t. It just felt wrong to leave without her.
There’s a quote I heard on a show called Paradise recently that perfectly describes what it feels like for grieving people to move forward after loss. In referencing her deceased son, the character, Sonatra, said:
“Everyone said time would help, but it isn’t. Time is actually making it worse because it’s taking me further away from when he was here.”
That line hit me hard.
It can be a heavy thing to process—the fact that life keeps moving forward. It can feel like your loved one will be forgotten if you keep going. But that’s not true. Forward motion is a beautiful and honorable thing. It is a quiet reminder of the hope we have in Christ.
Jesus didn’t stay in the tomb. He rose.
Without that stone rolling away—without time moving forward—we would not be able to grieve with hope.
But the tomb is empty. Jesus is risen.
Time does move forward.
And that’s okay.
Because with each step, we are moving closer to the day we’ll see them again.
Joy Through the After
Writing has always been one of my favorite pastimes, but I’m not sure words will ever fully capture how grateful I am to be a mother—to be their mother.
I don’t expect Liam and Brielle to erase the pain of losing their sister. But somehow, they’ve expanded my heart’s capacity to carry it. God is using them for a deeply good work—teaching me how to hold hands with both grief and joy at the same time. In my grief, I am reminded that the ultimate comfort is not found in the presence of my children alone, but in Christ. The reason we can mourn with hope is because He has entered into our suffering—He has wept with us, and through His resurrection, He promises us that death will not have the final word.
I’m still learning. I don’t do this perfectly. Grief isn’t linear. Some days it crashes in like a wave, other days it rests quietly beside me.
But I keep moving forward—for them. And in honor of her.
Motherhood doesn’t pause while a heart heals. But there is grace woven all the way through.
Grief is still here.
But so is God.
And so are they.