My friends,

I want to write this plainly, because the truth deserves plain language. The last two years have been the hardest stretch of my life. Losing my husband broke my heart in a way that changed everything—how I breathe, how I trust, how I see the future. Grief didn’t just visit; it moved in. And yet, faith met me there in ways I can’t deny.

On the day my husband died, the Holy Spirit came to me. Not symbolically. Not faintly. He came with clarity and authority and peace that did not come from me. And He said, “Do not worry. Do not fear. Everything is going to be alright.” Those were the exact words. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t create them. They were given. And they have carried me through moments that would have otherwise crushed me.

That encounter didn’t remove the pain. It didn’t shorten the grief. But it marked me. It told me that God was already in the devastation, already ahead of me, already holding what I could not. It was the first time I understood that faith is not about explanations—it’s about presence.

There were many days after that when strength was gone. Days when getting out of bed felt impossible. Nights when the sorrow felt endless. And in those moments, I learned something that became deeply personal to me: I could crawl into God’s loving hands when times got tough. Not stand confidently. Not pray eloquently. Crawl. And He let me. I rested there—exhausted, undone, honest—and I was held. No fixing. No rushing. Just love.

Reading All Things New helped put language to what I was living. It reminded me that God is not asking us to deny our losses, but to trust Him with them. That redemption doesn’t mean forgetting—it means restoration. The book speaks of God not discarding what is broken, but renewing it, weaving sorrow into something meaningful again. One line that stayed with me says that God is making “all things new,” not other things new. That includes what was lost. That includes what hurts.

Hope didn’t come back all at once. It came quietly. Slowly. Through prayer, through stillness, through the realization that renewal is not betrayal. Moving forward does not mean moving on from love. It means believing that God is capable of holding both grief and future in the same hands.

I am not the woman I was before loss. I am softer in some places, stronger in others, less interested in noise, more anchored in truth. Grief refined my faith instead of destroying it. It stripped away what was shallow and rooted me in what is eternal.

If you’ve watched me disappear at times, wrestle, question, and then slowly re-emerge, this is why. God has been faithful to me in ways that go beyond words. His love didn’t wait for me to be okay. It came when I was on the floor. It stayed. And it is still leading me toward hope, renewal, and life again.

Thank you for walking beside me, for praying when I couldn’t, for allowing my grief to be real. I carry sorrow, yes—but I also carry peace. And that peace comes from a God who keeps His promises and keeps saying, “Do not worry. Do not fear. Everything is going to be alright.”

With love,

January 2026

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