To be continued . . .

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning…” — Lamentations 3:22-23 Just as promised. Just as expected. Even with many clouds in the way… Dawn comes. Some mornings, like today, the light doesn’t burst across the sky. Instead, it quietly peeks through, patiently sharing the stage with lingering clouds. And this morning, the moon—still hanging on. “God bless the moon, God bless me…” Smiled because I’ve felt like that moon. Holding on. Hardly noticeable. Barely letting go of the darkness. Trying to shine while waiting for the light. In much the same way, I bring my darkness to God. And just as promised… just as expected… just as He has always done… His light begins to peek through. Not always all at once. Not always without resistance. Sometimes His light arrives alongside the clouds. My clouds. The ones I’d rather not carry. The ones I’d rather hurry past. The ones I pray would disappear. Yet even these clouds are purposeful. Necessary. Unavoidable. I’ve learned I don’t have to wait for a cloudless sky before I begin walking toward the light. I simply keep walking expectantly toward dawn, receiving God’s light however it chooses to reveal itself. Sometimes it is only a sliver. Sometimes it is enough. Then, over time, the calm I longed for—and the peace so many prayed for alongside me—came Outta Nowhere. Just as promised. The sun slowly peeked through… and then burst forward with breathtaking grandeur. The clouds didn’t completely disappear. Some are still there. But they no longer define the sky. Those welcomed rays—both figurative and literal—have illuminated countless moments of love, hope, peace, and unexpected joy despite my darkness. Despite my grief. Despite my brokenness. Despite the clouds. God has used His light to reveal things I once overlooked: quiet mercies, faithful friends, unexpected strength, and glimpses of beauty I could never have seen from the darkness alone. The strength within me was never mine to manufacture. It has always come from God. There were seasons when He felt hidden. Silent. Distant. But He was never absent. He was waiting for me in the dawn. And just as promised… the sun came out again. Lord, thank You that Your promises are not dependent upon clear skies. Teach us to keep walking toward the light, even when the clouds linger. Help us trust that dawn is coming—not because we can see it, but because You have promised it. Amen.

No doubt Disney World always has been and always will be "The Happiest Place on Earth." Bob and I took our boys for their first Disney trip when they were about six and eight—or maybe five and seven. The exact ages have faded with time, but the memories have not. We originally subscribed to the "once-in-a-childhood" philosophy. That lasted exactly one trip. We returned several times over the years. On that first visit, before we had even unpacked, I dropped off my rolls of 35mm film at the neighborhood Eckerd's. Photography was a beloved hobby, and I couldn't wait to see the pictures. Two days later, I picked them up only to discover they had been ruined. My camera had malfunctioned. There were images of my gleeful boys standing next to beheaded versions of Mickey Mouse and their parents. Every photograph was unusable. I was devastated. Those memories were lost forever. Or so I thought. Somewhere along the way, I remembered how Scripture tells us that Mary "treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." So I gave it a try. I became intentional about taking in life's moments with all my senses. Really seeing. Really hearing. Really smelling, tasting, and touching. Long before I knew the word mindfulness, I was practicing it. Thomas Merton described it beautifully: "Now. Here. This." It became part of my gratitude practice that has saved my life. I don't remember exactly what year that first Disney trip was. But I remember the delight in my boys' faces. I remember their excited voices. I remember the magic they experienced through the eyes of children. It was chaotic, but joyfully so. Exhausting, but fulfillingly so. Those memories remain treasured in my heart. Another trip was when the boys were ten and eight. It was Thanksgiving week, and I was still shell-shocked from the news of an unintended pregnancy. My mother and stepfather joined us. We enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner in Liberty Square with characters dressed as Pilgrims. We would return again during toddlerhood with our youngest and make several more family pilgrimages through the years. For a long time, that Thanksgiving trip was my favorite. Until now. Experiencing Disney as a grandparent is hands down my favorite role yet. My daughter-in-love Brittany is a true Disney enthusiast, and somehow my oldest son has become a Disney Dad—which still makes me smile. This trip celebrated Grayson's second birthday. And it wasn't even his first visit. One of the things I love most about Brittany is how she understands something many young parents don't realize until years later: while Grayson may not remember much of this trip, she will. She often says that his childhood is also her motherhood. I have thought about that phrase many times since I first read it on her magicwithmilam Instagram post. She has such wisdom I did not as a young mother . As parents, we spend so much energy creating memories for our children that we sometimes forget we are creating memories for ourselves, too. I sure did . We assume the investment is all for them—the birthday parties, the vacations, the bedtime stories, the traditions, the photographs, the ordinary Tuesdays that somehow become sacred in hindsight. But those moments are shaping us as much as they are shaping them. His second birthday at Disney may eventually fade from Grayson's memory, but Brittany will remember the way his eyes widened at the sight of the castle. She will remember the little hand reaching for hers. She will remember the exhaustion at the end of the day, the stroller naps, the sticky fingers, the laughter, and probably a few meltdowns too. She understands that she is not simply raising a child. She is also becoming a mother. And motherhood, like childhood, happens only once. There are no do-overs. No rewinds. No opportunities to return to a particular season and live it again. One day, she will not just remember Grayson's childhood. She will remember her own motherhood within it. As I watched her navigate schedules, meals, rides, naps, and logistics with a level of preparation that would impress a military commander, I realized she was doing something much deeper than planning a vacation. She was intentionally creating a life she wanted to remember. Not because every moment was magical. But because every moment mattered. As a grandmother now, I can see what younger me could not. The children are never the only ones growing. Parents are growing. Grandparents are growing. Families are growing. And if we are paying attention, God is growing something in all of us. Even you. Even me. This trip was also different for another reason. My role was simple: be an extra set of hands and eyes. Push the stroller. Help with some of the expenses. Slip back to the room with Grayson for bath, books, brushing teeth, bedtime, and all the rituals that follow. Nap when he napped. Stand watch when needed. It was refreshing. Liberating, even. Every second was a privilege I’m eternally grateful for. Of course, there was bittersweetness woven throughout. There always is. I know Bob would have treasured this trip in his heart, too. He would have delighted in Grayson's wonder. He would have watched our sons with pride as father and uncle. He would have marveled at Brittany's energy and competence. He would have shared a tube of Bengay with me, napped beside me, and I’m certain he would have even tried sushi with me. Every time a ride launched us skyward in simulated flight, I found myself whispering, "We sure miss you down here." Now we are approaching our fifth summer without him. The tears still come, though less often now. The ache remains tender. Grief has changed, but it has not disappeared. I suspect it never will. But alongside grief, there is so much to anticipate. So much to celebrate. So much life unfolding within our growing family. Over these years, I've learned that bitter and sweet are not opposites. They are companions. They travel hand in hand. And gratitude always tags along . Perhaps that is what Mary understood when Scripture tells us she "treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." She knew moments pass. Children grow. Roles change. Life unfolds in ways we never expect. The only way to truly keep it is not with photographs, calendars, or souvenirs, though those are lovely. The only way to preserve it is to receive it fully while it is here. To notice. To savor. To treasure. To store it away in the heart where neither time nor loss can completely erase it. Maybe that is what I've been learning all these years. Cameras fail. Bodies fail. People we love leave this earth. Children grow into parents, and parents become grandparents. We cannot hold onto any of it for long. But we can treasure it. We can receive it while it is here. We can store it away in our hearts and trust that God will tend those memories long after the moment itself has passed. Perhaps that, too, is part of making do while God makes the way? Comment on you favorite parenthood memories !

As my church prepares to celebrate Graduate Recognition Day this Sunday, I find myself flooded with memories spanning decades. From when Bob earned his MBA in 1997, to 2013 when Justin graduated high school and I completed my bachelor’s degree and we stood together at that service, to my master’s in 2022, and Matthew’s high school graduation in 2024—each milestone feels both distant and close all at once. Now, I’m watching graduates I’ve known since birth—or since their preschool days—step into their next chapters. Below is an excerpt from Chapter 29, “Pomp and Circumstance,” from Outta Nowhere, as I reflect on and pray for those walking through this sacred, bittersweet season of endings and beginnings. I’d love to hear from you—how is this season unfolding in your life? I can hardly believe it’s already been two years since my youngest son graduated high school. As I found myself right in the middle of awards nights, church recognitions, senior celebrations, and graduation for my baby boy, I was basking in deep joy and pride. All the while, grief gathered quietly at the base of my throat and at the edges of my eyes. I caught myself wondering if this was how Mary felt as she watched her baby boy—the Savior of the world—grow and step into adulthood. We are not told exactly what she felt. All we know is that Mary “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). The same phrase appears again in Luke 2:51 after Mary and Joseph searched three days for their adolescent son. Three days! I have no doubt she felt sheer terror, yet somehow she gathered herself and once again treasured it all in her heart. She tucked these moments away—no photos, no videos—just the sacred keeping of a mother’s heart, mind, and soul. I am learning from her example, striving not to drown in waves of grief, but to treasure and ponder what God is doing in this season of bittersweet celebration and release. I imagine joy and grief swirled within her, ebbing and flowing throughout Jesus’s life—even as he stepped into adulthood. Mary may not have understood it all, but she knew her son was born with purpose—one that would include both glory and suffering. She mothered him while holding his calling in her weary hands and tender heart. And so I, too, embrace this sacred tension—the normal, natural, necessary loss—and at the same time celebrate my baby boy as he spreads his wings and soars into his next chapter. I will spread my wings as well, trusting God, all the while pondering these things in my heart.

Note this is the first blog post containing information that did not make it into the book. Be sure to lease your comments about this chapter that did not make it into the book...... Grief in the Workplace Over the past four years, I’ve had the privilege of connecting with many widows and grievers through social media and a coaching group I joined. The stories I’ve heard from these new friends are both heartbreaking and deeply inspiring. At the same time, I’ve become painfully aware of how grief-illiterate our society can be—especially in the workplace. One bereaved mother was asked by her supervisor to remove a small, professionally framed photo of her stillborn daughter from her cubicle because it “made others uncomfortable.” Another widow requested to shorten her lunch break by 30 minutes so she could arrive later and get her children to school—a role her late husband once filled. Her request was denied. One woman used her FMLA time caring for her dying husband, only to be denied leave when her parents later needed her. With her income cut in half after her husband’s death, resignation became her only option. These stories are not rare. And they are not okay. As an employer, supervisor, or coworker, it is crucial to provide a supportive, open, and flexible work environment for those experiencing loss. Start by reviewing your company’s bereavement policies. If none exist, ask questions—because the absence of policy is unacceptable. Even when policies are in place and the laws are being upheld, they often fail to address the ongoing needs of grieving employees after they return to work. This is where breakdowns happen. Expectations go unspoken. Needs go unmet. Awkward interactions increase. Morale declines. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Here are a few ways I have noted that we can make this incredibly hard experience a little more manageable; I would love to hear your ideas and experiences: 1. Acknowledge that loss changes everything. Some deaths drastically alter a person’s role overnight. Flexibility should not be optional—it should be expected. A surviving spouse may now be a single parent with double the responsibility and a significantly reduced income. Someone who loses a parent or sibling may take on caregiving roles within the family. And the loss of a child? That is a life-altering devastation beyond words. Flexible hours, incremental return-to-work plans, telework options, and additional breaks can make a meaningful difference. Grieving employees are not only processing loss—they are often managing funeral arrangements, legal matters, financial transitions, and major life restructuring, all while trying to remain employed. 2. Manage expectations—yours and theirs. Do not assume that when someone returns to work, they are “back to normal.” Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. Research suggests that individuals experiencing intense grief may function at about 70% of their usual capacity in the first six months. Compassion and realistic expectations go a long way. 3. Ask—don’t assume. If someone is widowed, ask what they prefer to be called. I remember an administrative assistant who immediately changed my title to “Ms.” without asking. I am still proud to be a “Mrs.” Small details matter. Let the grieving person define what feels right for them. 4. Make space for their story. If they want to talk about their loved one, allow it. Even better—gently invite it. Ask if they’d like to share. Every grief journey is different. Respect their choices with normalcy and kindness. 5. Check your grief literacy and biases. Avoid comparing their experience to your own—or your lack of one. Saying, “I only took a day off when I lost someone” is not helpful. Grief is not a competition. Be mindful not to project your beliefs onto their experience. And please—don’t “should” on them. 6. Create an exit plan for difficult moments. Work with the grieving employee to develop a simple, agreed-upon way for them to step away when needed. A phrase, signal, or plan can help them leave a triggering situation with dignity. My former superintendent had allowed me to support colleagues returning from bereavement leave—offering my office and even covering their classroom if they needed a moment. She really "got it!" That kind of leadership matters. 7. Respect the line between curiosity and intrusion. There is a difference between compassionate curiosity and harmful nosiness. Grievers know the difference. Before asking a question, check your intention. Are you offering support—or seeking a story to share? Being judged is one of the most common fears among those who are grieving. We can do better. And we must do better! Because grief doesn’t clock out at 5 p.m.

Saturday, I made myself go back. Back to the beautiful Emory campus. A stroll through the quaint and bustling Emory Village and the Candler School of Theology whose outside surroundings became my sanctuary for eight months. A contemplative stroll back to the hospital where my husband lived for 8 months. A place I could not even enter the lobby the first month, then the place where we were finally together yet isolated from the outside world. A place that held both comfort and trauma in the same breath. A place that felt like home and a place that felt like hell all within in same twenty-four hours . A place we finally found answers. I expected something louder when I walked through those doors. I was prepared for grief to rise up to meet me in a recognizable way— sharp, heavy, undeniable. But what I found instead was numbness. And that surprised me! Not emptiness, exactly. Just a quiet flattening of everything. I did what I have learned to do over these past six years: I slowed my breathing. I reframed my thoughts. I stayed present. And underneath it all, and out of nowhere, they came: nervousness sadness gratitude—all existing at once, none asking to be the loudest. Ambiguous! That is the closest word I have. I walked the same halls where I once knew, without anyone saying it, that we were nearing the end— the end of my role as caregiver, the end of his fight, the beginning of something I never asked for: widowhood. I found the alcove where I sat with my sons, preparing them to see their father when finally allowed, despite the weight of COVID restrictions. Those fateful words I began hearing –“Critical. Unstable. Guarded prognosis. Other family members only during end of life care.” I remember choosing my words carefully then, trying to soften something that cannot be softened. During my walk through that place there were small things I didn’t expect to remember— the sound of the elevator, the cafeteria’s familiar scent, the sterile air that somehow still lingers in memory. All of it still there. All of it unchanged. Except the people— I asked about them. The names I had carried with me all this time— the nurses, the valet, the transporters— the ones who held doors, held space, held us together. No one I asked remembered them. This devastated me! Mark, Sandra, Alton, Abachu, Blessing, Ryan, Linda Alton, Julie. But I guess that makes sense. This place has held so many stories, so many families, so many endings. We were one of many. But to me, they were my everything. These were people I will likely never see again, yet they changed me— shaped the way I understand and sit with grief, the way I show up for my clients, the way I love the people still here. They were part of the hardest chapter of my life, and somehow also part of what was most human within it. And even now, I carry them forward—even if I am the only one who remembers their names. Before I left, I stepped into the chapel. There, I noticed a stained glass piece inside a circle; a tree, full of color and life. And then it hit me— I have this same image in my own kitchen window. The same tree. Within a heart. The same reaching branches. The same quiet symbolism of growth. I stood there for a moment, taking it in— how something that once held me in one of the hardest seasons of my life now holds me in the space where I now nourish and gather and continue continue life. A reminder that growth does come. Not in the way we expect. Not without cost. But it comes. For 6 years now, my life has been this quiet pairing of gratitude among trauma and grief, and making do while God makes a way . And maybe the most unexpected truth of all is this: Daring to grieve has been the place where the most growth has happened for me. . It is not the life I would have chosen. But it is the life I have learned to walk in. If you are grieving, or if you are loving someone who is, please hear this: You are not doing it wrong. Even when it feels unclear, uneven, or impossibly heavy— Grief and gratitude can exist together. Love and exhaustion can sit in the same space. And to those walking beside us trying, in all the ways you know how; it matters more than you will ever fully see. We may not always have the words. We may not always show it. But we carry you with us, too.