We feebly struggle, they in glory shine

It’s been a while since I’ve written. If I’m honest, the last year—or maybe the last seven years since Lacey's diagnosis—feels like I’ve been wading through a fog. Grief has a way of slowing time while life keeps moving forward, and you look back and wonder how you’ve made it this far.

Grief is lonely. Not just because of the loss itself, but because it sets you apart. I don’t know many people my age who’ve lost a parent, and even fewer who’ve lost a sibling— or both.  It makes you feel different. Last year, I joined a grief group at church, hoping to connect with others who’ve been through something similar. But I didn’t stay long. My family needs me, my kids need me, and it felt like diving too deep into all of it would cause everything else to unravel.

But I wonder if that’s just an excuse. Maybe saying I’m too needed to process my grief is a way of avoiding the hard things. There’s been so much hard already, maybe my heart is just tired. Sometimes, it feels easier to keep moving rather than stop and feel it all. Maybe that's normal?

This past weekend, I went to a celebration of life service for a friend’s baby girl. The sorrow in that beautiful meadow where the service was held was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I thought of my own grief, but it seemed small in comparison. How do you even begin to measure the loss of a child against any other kind of grief?

But that’s when I realized—comparing grief doesn’t help. We all carry burdens, and they are heavy in their own ways. We’re all walking our own roads, and each story matters. Grief isn’t a contest, and it’s not something that can be measured. We’re all carrying pieces of brokenness, and each one is heavy in its own way.

There’s something I haven’t shared. Last year, on top of everything else, we lost three pregnancies. The first one was especially significant. I found out I was pregnant on the evening of my dad’s funeral. I was pretty confident I was pregnant, but I waited to take the test until after we had buried him. I didn’t want anything to take away from those days of honoring him. When the test came back positive, it was so clear that I woke everyone up in the house to share the news.

Later that night, after the house had quieted, I checked the due date. When the app showed that the baby was due on my dad’s birthday, I couldn’t believe it. On the day we laid him to rest, I found out I was carrying a baby due on his birthday. It felt like a moment of rejoicing in the middle of my grief, a clear reminder that God was present with me, even in that dark time.

But a week later, we lost the baby.

October 11 is coming— an anniversary of my dad’s birthday and what would have been this baby’s due date—and I don’t know how to hold all that. It’s just a sad day, full of grief for what could have been. It’s a reminder that joy and sorrow often walk side by side in this life. And while I can’t control the circumstances, I can lean into the truth that even in the brokenness, God is still good.

At my friend’s service, she shared that they sang the hymn For All the Saints to their sweet girl as she prepared to pass into eternity. They wanted her to feel the beauty of what awaited her.

That hymn has become a part of our nightly routine. I’ve been singing it to my kids almost every night since my dad died. It wasn’t planned—it just became part of our rhythm. There’s something about hymns that connect us to generations of believers who’ve sung them before us, reminding us of the long story of faith we’re part of. For All the Saints was written in 1874, and its truths are still so meaningful.

These are a couple of the verses that have meant the most to me:

I sang these words so many times growing up without giving them much thought. But now, they’ve come alive in a new way. “We feebly struggle, they in glory shine.” I think of my dad, of Lacey, and of the babies we lost. Their struggle is over. They are at rest. And here we are, still in the race, still pressing forward. But we are not alone. We’re part of a greater story, a communion of saints, all of us held in the hands of God.

Recently, we started having “question time” before bed with the kids. They can ask anything, and their questions are often hilarious, but they’ve also been surprisingly deep.

Last night, Travis asked, “Why do we say we’ve done wrong things to God every Sunday?” His question reminded me that even when we think they’re not paying attention, kids are soaking up every stinking thing. And it reminded me of the importance of confession in our faith.

Each week, we confess together:

This is one of the most meaningful parts of the service for me. We stand together, admitting the truth of who we are: broken, fallen, in need of grace. But the beauty of it is that God doesn’t leave us there. We confess, and He forgives. It’s not about shame—it’s about remembering who He is. A God of mercy, grace, and forgiveness.

Travis’s question reminded me of something simple but profound: sometimes we don’t have to fully understand for God to be at work. Even when we’re just going through the motions, He’s moving beneath the surface. He’s comforting us, holding us, and leading us, even when we can’t see the way forward.

He is always faithful. That’s where I find hope, even in the hard days. Even here.