September is a bittersweet month for me.

This month marks nine years since Sebastian’s homecoming.

It’s hard to put into words what it feels like to say nine years. In some ways, so much life has happened since then. And yet, there are moments when the memories feel incredibly close.

Grief has changed over these nine years, but my love for Sebastian hasn’t.

Maybe that’s why a message I recently received from a reader touched my heart so deeply.

“Thank you for sharing your story Jackie. Your book has been extremely helpful and I am very grateful. I am trying to navigate life after my son’s passing 6 months ago. It has not been easy as you know but knowing you have been through this helps me know I will be ok at some point again too.”

But something she said stayed with me.

Knowing that I had walked this road before her gave her hope that someday, somehow, she would be okay again too.

That's why I shared my story.

Writing Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide meant going back to some very painful places in my own life. There were parts of my story that weren’t easy to put on paper.

But I knew other mothers were out there.

Mothers in those first days, months, and years after losing a child who may be wondering:

Will I ever be okay again?

I remember wondering the same thing.

Nine years later, I wish I could tell every grieving mother exactly when life will begin to feel a little more manageable. I can’t.

What I can say is that after all these years…

I still love Sebastian.

I still miss him.

There are still moments when grief catches me by surprise.

But there is also joy in my life. There is purpose. There is laughter. And there is hope.

There will always be hope.

Being okay again doesn’t mean forgetting our children or leaving them behind.

It means learning how to carry our love for them with us as we continue living the life God has given us.

That mother’s message reminded me that sometimes the most meaningful thing we can offer another person isn’t an answer.

It’s simply being present.

I’ve walked this road too. And there is hope.

One verse that has carried me through my grief is this...

“Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.”

— Psalm 30:5 (NIV)

For me, that morning didn’t come all at once.

It came slowly—in moments of peace, unexpected laughter, precious memories, and the realization that grief and joy could somehow exist in the same heart.

This September, as I remember Sebastian and mark nine years since his homecoming, I’m especially grateful that God has allowed me to use my story to bring hope to another mother.

If you’re in a place today where you can’t yet imagine feeling okay again, I hope you’ll hold onto this:

And if you’re walking beside someone who is grieving, sometimes simply being there and reminding them they aren’t alone is one of the greatest gifts you can give.

I’m grateful you’re here, and I’m grateful we can continue walking this journey together.

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“So, what’s your book about?”

I froze for a moment; the lingering silence was awkward. I didn’t know what to say to this kind stranger. I mean, I wrote the book, so I knew what it was about. But until I started talking about it and sharing with people that I had written it, I hadn’t anticipated the similar reactions that would follow.

In chapter 13 of my book Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide, I wrote about learning how to “dodge verbal hand grenades” from well-meaning individuals who would ask innocent questions like, “How many children do you have?” Early in my grief, I struggled with how to answer this question after my son had died. I longed to give the “easy” answer I had confidently stated for twenty-three years before Sebastian’s death.

Nine years later, I continue to find that answers to seemingly innocent questions remain elusive.

With the publication of my book, I could not have anticipated how hard these new sets of questions would become.

The easy answer is just to say, “I wrote a book helping mothers who are grieving the loss of a child by suicide.”

My unsuspecting questioner will pause (another period of awkward silence), take a deep breath, then look me in the eye (sometimes with tears forming) and say, “I’m so sorry.”

This has happened every time. I feel like I’m now lobbing verbal hand grenades back into their unsuspecting hope-filled expectations of hearing about a new Jane Austen-type novel.

I’ve tried different tactics with varying results.

I’ve tried answering, “I’ve published a non-fiction /self-help book.” But then the next question inevitably will be “what’s your topic?

I’ve tried to change the subject and avoid the answer, but then what’s the use of writing a book if you can’t talk about it and get “excited” about what one has accomplished?

That brings me to another set of questions I’ve been hearing recently…

“Are you excited about your book being published/coming out?”

I find myself fumbling with the word “excited.” Being “excited,” according to most dictionaries, including the Cambridge Dictionary, means “Feeling very happy and enthusiastic.”

Am I allowed to be “excited” about a book that discusses helping mothers after their child dies by suicide?

I have intentionally thought of different words or phrases I could potentially use in place of “excited:”

· Thrilled (no)

· Inspired (not really)

· Intoxicated (yuck)

· Delighted (could be, but feels the same as “excited”)

· Galvanized (similar to thrilled; no)

· Eager (I am “eager” to get my books into the hands of grieving mothers)

· Exhilarated (no)

· Pumped (no)

· Enthusiastic (no)

· Keen (kind of like eager’s answer)

I am excited to be a published author. I really did want to write the next Jane Austen novel, but alas, that was not what God had planted in my heart.

I am excited about the possibility of getting my book into the hands of grieving mothers and those who are coming alongside them in their grief.

And I am excited that people are excited about giving this book to grieving mothers (almost everybody knows of someone who has died by suicide; each one of them had a mother).

But as I wrote in Messy Mourning, vulnerability matters. When I share my struggles, my grief, and the hope I still have in Jesus, it can give both hurting and non-hurting people permission to share their own hurts and struggles too. I want to be a safe place for grieving mothers, and if answering questions about my book means I must keep adjusting, refining, and redirecting my words, then I will. Because ultimately, this book is not simply about loss, suicide, or even motherhood. It is about meeting people in the tender, awkward, holy places of grief and gently pointing them toward the One who meets us there first. So I will keep answering the hard questions. I will keep learning how to hold both sorrow and hope in the same sentence. And I will keep trusting that even the verbal hand grenades can become invitations—for honesty, for healing, and, in the end, for hurting hearts to meet Jesus.

Messy Mourning: Hope For Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child

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I wrote Messy Mourning because after losing my son Sebastian to suicide, I found myself walking through a kind of grief that felt isolating, complicated, and often misunderstood. I was a mother grieving the loss of her child, but I was also a Christian trying to reconcile deep sorrow, unanswered questions, guilt, anger, and faith. In those early days, I longed for space not to rush my healing, minimize my pain, or offer easy answers. I wanted someone to sit with me in my messy mourning and gently remind me that God was still near.

This book grew out of that longing. I wanted to write what I wish I had been handed after Sebastian died: honest words from another mother who understood the shock, shame, questions, stigma, and aching love that follow suicide loss. I wanted grieving mothers to know they are not alone, that their child is more than the way they died, and that mourning does not have to be neat or predictable to be held by God.

I also wrote this book for the people who surround grieving mothers—families, friends, pastors, churches, counselors, and support communities—because many want to help but do not know what to say or do. My hope is that Messy Mourning gives them language, compassion, and practical guidance so they can love grieving mothers with wisdom rather than clichés, presence rather than pressure, and tenderness rather than silence.

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Dear Friends,

In exactly one week, on Thursday, July 9, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide will officially be out in the world.

Here’s what you can do to get ready for launch:

- Add Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide to your wish list or preorder here: preorder

- Mark your calendar for July 9, 2026.

This is your final week to secure the exclusive pre-order book bundle before they disappear on launch day. This includes:

· Companion Journal (PDF): Questions and prompts aligned to each chapter

· Surviving the “Firsts” Plan (PDF): Christmas/holidays, birthdays, death-day anniversary, Mother’s Day, etc. (planning worksheet + boundaries + gentle rituals)

· What Helps / What Hurts (PDF): scripts for friends, family, and church communities (includes “what not to say” alternatives)

· Selected Psalms of Lament Reading Plan (PDF): 30-day path + space for notes

· A 12-Song Spotify Playlist (link) with accompanying Listening Guide

How to claim your gifts before next Thursday:

1. Pre-order your copy today through Amazon: preorder

2. Forward your digital receipt to jackiembaker@fastmail.com.

3. My team will reply with your instant download links.

Thank you for your incredible support as we enter this final week. Let’s make sure no grieving mother has to walk this path alone.

With anticipation and hope,

Jackie M. Baker

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I found out my father died today.

Arthur Charles Karneth died June 19, 2024, almost two years ago, and no one told me.

It’s hard to grieve for a man whom, in my known memory, I remember meeting maybe a handful of times.

But there is melancholy of emotions in my brain, a sadness, anger, a sense of regret, and loss of what could have been. So many emotions for a man who probably never thought about me, unless it was thrust upon him.

My younger brother Charles Arthur was named after our father, Arthur Charles.

Art married my mother when they were both seventeen. My father once told me that he and my mother were caught in a compromising situation by my grandmother. My parents, with their prefrontal cortexes still underdeveloped, panicked and said my mother was pregnant, and they had to get married.

They were not pregnant, but they did get married quickly in a Catholic church.

According to my father, to “disprove their lie”, I showed up nine months later.

Charles was born seventeen months later. By then, my father had already left my mother for another woman, with whom he stayed married until his death. Art and his wife had two sons, who didn’t know they had another brother and sister, until I decided to meet them when I turned seventeen.

My mom once told me that my father saw me on my fifth birthday. I have no memory of this visit.

***

While I was in high school, my family moved into an upstairs duplex in a run-down house on Dingens Street, in an industrial area on the outer edge of Buffalo, New York. Somehow, I found out my father worked three buildings down at Otto Braun Bakery Equipment, where he was a manager. As I was a typical angry teenager who was mad at my absent father, who never saw me, and who had only been paying $40.00 per month for my upkeep, I wanted to meet him and tell him all sorts of ugly things I thought about him. Mostly not good. I decided to take Charles, who was then fifteen, for moral support.

So many questions were swirling through my brain: Why didn’t he ever want to see us? Why did he leave? Didn’t he love us? Did he think about us and wonder how we were?

The day Charles and I decided to meet my father at his job, some “well meaning” person in our family told him we were coming. Our visit, therefore, lacked the element of surprise I was looking for. Why would someone do that? Were they afraid he might get his feelings hurt? He should be hurt! Were they afraid he might be shocked (as he should have been)? I wanted him to be shocked. Now it’ll be just awkward and extremely uncomfortable.

We were all polite and said the right things, we made superficial small talk, and we told him what we were doing. What is the proper thing to say to your father when you haven’t seen him for twelve years? We were all dancing around the real questions I wanted to know. Why? Why did he leave us and never want to see us? How could a parent do that?

The biggest surprise was how much we looked like him. We all had thick, full heads of wavy, dark brown hair. He was not going grey yet (this was good news for me), Charles was the exact image of him, and they were almost the same height. We all had the same brown-hued eyes. My father had retained his James Dean look, and I could see why my mother had first been attracted to him. He was aging well, whereas my mother was not.

As I was nearing graduation from high school, my father gave me his old camera equipment for my birthday. I felt at the time that it was a guilt offering to try to make up for not being physically there. It was a nice camera, with different lens attachments, but I sold it for $100.00, the amount needed for my college application fee.

That same summer, my mother received a letter from my father stating that he wanted to get an annulment from her so he could remarry his wife in the Catholic church. After my parents’ divorce, my father was excommunicated from the Catholic Church. He married his second wife, Lynn, in a civil ceremony outside the church. My father had decided to return to his Catholic roots and needed this annulment.

“He can’t get an annulment,” I yelled at my mother. “You were married in the Catholic Church and then had Charles and me.” Clenching my teeth, I retorted, “He can’t do this!”

I called my father and confronted him about this.

“You can’t get an annulment,” I told him, now yelling at him on the phone.

“It’s just a formality,” he told me calmly back through the receiver.

“But you had us after you married Mom,” I shot back. “How can you call it nothing when Charles and I are living proof it was real?” My voice broke, the anger in it sharp enough to cut, but underneath it was something worse—hurt.

“It’s no big deal,” my father said. “This happened a long time ago; things have changed.”

“It makes me a bastard in the eyes of the church!” I bellowed. “You can’t do that!” I clench my palms together; the phone jammed in the crook of my neck; I paced back and forth across the kitchen floor as far as the phone cord would stretch.

“No, it won’t, it’s just a piece of paper, so don’t worry about it.”

“Did you pay off some priest so you can get it done?” I retorted.

“Does the priest know about us or did you fail to tell them about me and Charles like you forgot to tell Aaron and Eric about their sister and brother?”

I slapped my palm against the wood paneling in front of the pantry. He’s an idiot, I thought to myself. “Either way you lied, I’m a bastard, so is Charles, we don’t matter to you and you don’t mean anything to me anymore anyway.” I slammed the receiver loudly back on the base of the phone and didn’t talk to him again for at least ten more years.

I heard he got the annulment.

Still made me a bastard in the eyes of the Catholic church.

***

I recognized my father immediately when he walked into the funeral home with his wife, Lynn. Even now, after thirty years, the last time I saw him, he hadn’t changed much. His full head of black hair had finally turned silver. He was now seventy-five. I had known he was coming; I had a heads-up two days prior and had been preparing myself mentally and physically so I wouldn’t say something to him I’d regret later.

My initial thought was “why?” Why come to your son’s funeral when you haven’t been in his life but for brief moments in the last fifty-five years? Charles hated his father, and I didn’t blame him; he wasn’t on any of my top 100 lists of great people in my life.

He wasn’t on any list I had at all.

I asked my nephew Chuck, Charles’ oldest son, who was the exact replica of his father, and therefore his grandfather, if the rumors were true.

“Yeah, he’s coming.”

Chuck’s older sister, Jeanette, mentioned she had been spending time with him. “He’s really a great guy. So is his wife, Lynn.” Jeanette had recently been invited to a family reunion held by my father’s relatives and met the entire extended family. She said it was awesome. I’m a little disturbed by this revelation; he could spend time with a grandchild but not his own children.

I keep these thoughts to myself.

I approached my father first. I couldn’t wait any longer. This would not be a happy reunion, for many reasons.

“Why are you here?” I asked incredulously. Art was standing in front of Charles’ open coffin.

Charles looked better in death than he did when he was alive.

My father smiled and said, “It was the right thing to do.”

“No,” I replied, “the right thing to do should have happened fifty years ago.”

His wife stepped up beside him and slipped her hand into his, as if she needed to steady him—or protect him from me. Then she offered the usual small talk and her condolences. “I’m sorry for the loss of your son.”

I cringed. The words hit me wrong the moment they left her mouth. Sebastian had died two years ago. His oldest grandson had died two years ago. And my father still couldn’t say it—not even then, not even standing there at Charles’s coffin. His wife had to say what he could not. After a lifetime of distance, even his silence felt like one more abandonment.

***

In God’s infinite mercy, He provided me, over and over again, fathers and father figures throughout my life, who came at the right time when I needed them. Here are just a few examples:

My English teacher, Mr. Ugron, who encouraged me to go to college and believed I could make it (I did, and then some).

My pastor, Matt (and his wife Cindy), who loved me unconditionally and saw me as a daughter, guided me on how to live a life pleasing to God. Matt walked me down the aisle and gave me away when I married my husband, Steve.

My father-in-law, Mack, also took me under his wing and loved me. We shared a love for military history. He would always send me books he thought I’d like. He was the best father/father-in-law a daughter could ever have.

But God also made himself known to me as my father. Ever since I gave my life to His Son, Jesus, as my personal savior, God has directed my path. And as I have read the Bible over the many years of my life, I have learned about the love of my heavenly Father. He loves me as I am, unconditionally. He has never rejected me or turned his back on me. He made himself known to me in such gentle ways after the loss of Sebastian. I never would have made it through with my “real” Father’s love.

Even now, with the weight of my earthly father’s death and abandonment on my heart, I find light in knowing my heavenly Father has never failed me—and never will. The ache of this new loss lingers, but so does the comfort, clearer for its contrast.

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If this post resonated with you, I’d love to invite you to learn more about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning, coming out July 9, 2026. It’s a heartfelt companion for mothers grieving the loss of a child by suicide, offering hope, comfort, and gentle encouragement for the journey ahead. You can preorder it now on Amazon or through my website: https://www.jackiembaker.com

Today, I am thrilled to share the visual heart of my upcoming book. Below is the official cover for Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide.

Pre-orders are officially open today on Amazon.

To thank you for securing your copy early, you will receive my exclusive pre-order book bundle before they disappear on launch day. This includes:

· Companion Journal (PDF): Questions and prompts aligned to each chapter

· Surviving the “Firsts” Plan (PDF): Christmas/holidays, birthdays, death-day anniversary, Mother’s Day, etc. (planning worksheet + boundaries + gentle rituals)

· What Helps / What Hurts (PDF): scripts for friends, family, and church communities (includes “what not to say” alternatives)

· Selected Psalms of Lament Reading Plan (PDF): 30-day path + space for notes

· A 12-Song Spotify Playlist (link) with accompanying Listening Guide

How to claim your pre-order book bundle:

1. Pre-order the book through my website at jackiembaker.com or through Amazon.

2. Forward your receipt or proof of purchase to info@jackiembaker.com

3. We will email you the link.

Thank you for helping ensure this vital resource reaches the mothers who need it most.

With hope,

Jackie M. Baker

For the last three years, I have been working on a project born out of personal tragedy and a desire to support women walking through the unimaginable.

I am profoundly moved to share that my book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide, will officially release in July 2026.

This book is a dedicated space for raw honesty, healing, and above all, hope. It is written specifically for mothers navigating the unique, complex pain of losing a child to suicide.

Over the next few weeks, I will share behind-the-scenes updates, early excerpts, and preorder details.

Thank you for being part of this journey with me.

With gratitude,

Jackie M. Baker

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Dear Friends and Supporters,

I am reaching out with a heartfelt invitation to join the launch team for my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide, which provides compassionate guidance and hope to mothers who have lost a child to suicide. This project is deeply personal to me, offering faith-based encouragement and practical support for those navigating the difficult path of grief and healing.

My goal is not only to help those who are grieving, but also to empower them with wisdom earned through suffering—always prioritizing their own healing. With your help-filled compassion, I believe we can reach those who need this book most.

The official launch date for the book is July 2026. If you are willing to join the launch team or have questions about how you can help, please let me know, and/or click the attached link for more information.

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSduK2slweddT9XzLb6gek4WSYuE--gLSSoo-NIRogq5UueCjg/viewform?usp=publish-editor

Thank you for considering this opportunity to be a part of something truly impactful.

With gratitude,

Jackie

Sign up for my newsletter to receive reflections, encouragement, updates, and news about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide. Let’s move forward together with courage and compassion.

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My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Why are you so far from saving me,

so far from my cries of anguish?

My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,

by night, but I find no rest (Psalm 22:1 NIV)

My grief has lessened over the years; it’s not nearly as overwhelming anymore.

Grief is like a scar that remains after a past injury has finally healed. In the same way, as an open wound bleeds profusely, likewise, fresh grief bleeds. We can’t stop the hemorrhaging of our broken hearts.

But while the wound is gushing copious amounts of blood all over us and we are frantically trying to stop the bleeding, a miracle, unbeknownst to us, has already started. Within seconds, blood cells start clumping together, knitting the wound and protecting it, and eventually, the bleeding stops. Healing has begun, and we didn’t even know it. Within days, scabs develop, and over time, scars replace the once-damaged area.

The pain starts to fade as the wound begins to heal.

Scars, like grief, take a long time to heal—longer than we expect. Initially, the scar appears red, swollen, and misshapen. It can be painful when touched or bumped. The healed area can have a limited range of motion, and the replacement tissue is never as strong as the original. Scars never go away; by the same token, grief never really goes away. They are both constant reminders of what happened in the past. But, with God’s help, the mended tissue of grief slowly fades with each passing year until you hardly notice it.

God spoke to his people through the prophet Isaiah about a man of sorrows. This man, familiar with suffering and grief, would be despised by the leaders of his day and not be held in high esteem. He’d take on the pain and punishment of the entire world and die for the transgressions of those he loved. This man would bring peace. Isaiah proclaimed,

“But he was pierced for our transgressions,

he was crushed for our iniquities;

the punishment that brought us peace was on him,

and by his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5 NIV).

After his resurrection from the dead, Jesus showed himself to his disciples, and they were overjoyed. Of the eleven followers, only Thomas was missing. Later, when his friends shared the excellent news with Thomas, he didn’t believe that Jesus was indeed alive. Thomas said he needed to see and touch the scars where the nails had pierced Jesus’ hands and feet.

These scars showed the world that what happened to Jesus was true.

These same scars declare what Jesus did for me.

God showed His love and compassion to me by sending His Son, Jesus, born at Christmas time as a human baby in Bethlehem. Jesus became like me in every way possible, yet he did not sin. Jesus suffered as I have suffered; therefore, he understands my pain. Jesus did what no one else was able to do: dying on a cross, dying in my place, that I might have peace, healing in my grief, and forgiveness.

When I couldn’t sleep at night because my grief felt overwhelming, or when I found an old sock of Sebastian’s hidden away under a couch, and the ache that I thought was under control came flooding back in my inmost being. In those moments when I was sobbing quietly over Sebastian’s favorite meal that he’d never eat again or clutching my pillow in the darkness, God’s presence has never left me. He continues walking alongside me, guiding my steps until my final days on this earth are over. When I pass through the last enemy of this world, death, I will see Jesus face to face, complete with scarred hands and feet. I have this promise from God, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” (Revelation 21:4).

Happy Easter!

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If my story of grief and hope spoke to you, consider joining my community. Sign up for my newsletter to receive reflections, encouragement, updates, and news about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide. Let’s move forward together with courage and compassion.

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“The one thing which seems to me quite impossible is to take into consideration the kind of book one is expected to write; surely one can only write the book that is there to be written.”

― Dorothy L. Sayers, The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers 1899-1936: The Making of a Detective Novelist

Being vulnerable is hard.

Now that my book is with the publishers, I am filled with both anxiety and anticipation, eager to share my grief and faith journey to inspire others through these pages. The thought of connecting with readers and offering hope fills me with gratitude, knowing that soon, others will hold in their hands the story of God’s healing process.

People have been asking me, “Are you excited about your book being published?” I struggle with that word “excited.” It’s not that I’m not happy—it’s just that my feelings are more complicated than simple excitement. There’s anticipation, nervousness, and a sense of vulnerability that come with sharing my grief and faith journey. After years of pouring my thoughts into this manuscript, the idea of it being out in the world feels surreal. The significance of this moment lies in the deeply personal nature of my story and in the hope that it will resonate with others walking a similar path.

Merriam-Webster defines the adjective “excited” as “having, showing, or characterized by a heightened state of energy, enthusiasm, eagerness, etc.” I am “excited” about finishing my soon-to-be-published book, but at the same time, my topic is not “exciting.”

I wanted to write a novel like my favorite literary heroes, Jane Austen and Dorothy Sayers. Instead, I felt compelled to write a book for mothers grieving the loss of a child by suicide.

Recently, I have been studying a letter the apostle Paul wrote to the churches in Galatia, and it was through these passages that I suddenly became aware and got “excited” about why I had written my book. I was struck by his powerful message about freedom and grace—how he spoke openly about his past and the transformation he experienced through faith. This revelation mirrored the themes I wanted to explore in my own book, and it made me genuinely excited about my purpose for writing.

I used to be annoyed by some of Paul’s writings. In several New Testament letters, he seemed to boast about everything he had achieved, whether positive or negative. For example, in his letter to the Galatians, Paul wrote, “For you have heard of my previous way of life in Judaism, how intensely I persecuted the church of God and tried to destroy it. I was advancing in Judaism beyond many of my own age among my people and was extremely zealous for the traditions of my fathers.” (Galatians 1:13 NIV)

Paul’s willingness to share his story, both the good things and the awful things he had done, was not for self-glorification but to point others toward hope and redemption. It resonated deeply with me and inspired me to share my own grief journey more openly.

I can be excited about this.

I am writing this book, not only to tell my story, but to share my testimony. After Sebastian’s death, I experienced deep grief and faced many challenges. In the weeks following his passing, I struggled to find meaning in my pain. There were moments when despair overwhelmed me, yet it was then that I felt Jesus’s presence most strongly, guiding me toward healing.

By sharing my story, I hope to draw others closer to Jesus through their pain, reassuring them that God’s love can bring healing and hope even in tragedy.

At the same time, I share my story with caution. My story must be helpful to others. What I share should never imply to anyone: “see how awesome I am,” or “see how amazing I am despite my loss.” I don’t ever want my “story” ever to hide the truth of the gospel.

Tim Keller once said, “We are not sharing our story for ourselves, but to help others understand and find Christ; to point others to the amazing gospel of grace which has changed our lives, and which we know can change theirs, too.”^[1]

Jesus and his amazing gospel of grace have changed my life story. I hope others know their lives might change, too. This is what I’m excited about.

What have you been excited about lately?

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If my story of grief and hope spoke to you, consider joining my community. Sign up for my newsletter to receive reflections, encouragement, updates, and news about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide. Let’s move forward together with courage and compassion.

Jackiembaker.com

^[1] Keller, Timothy. Galatians for You. The Good Book Company. 2013.

One of my patients died this past week.

Greg was seventeen. He was graduating from high school in eight months.

It was sudden.

One moment, Greg was riding his bike; the next, he was flying through the air after being struck by an oncoming car.

The only reason I knew Greg died was from the discharge summary that popped up in the inbox of my electronic medical records (EMR) file on Wednesday morning, just as I was getting ready to see my first patient. I routinely receive these messages from the on-duty medical provider at a hospital when my patients visit the emergency room or urgent care. It tells me their chief complaint (usually a persistent cough, runny nose, or a rash that didn’t require ER or urgent care), the recommended treatment, and whether medication was prescribed. It usually ends with discharge to home,” and to “follow up with primary care provider as needed”.

These notes are concise, pertinent, and impersonal.

I was therefore taken by surprise and may have yelled “Oh my God!” when I read “Discharge Summary: Deceased.”

I had seen Greg in my office two weeks earlier. I had watched him grow up over the last five years, and with each wellness exam, I had learned more about him and his family.

His mom was worried and had made the appointment. He hadn’t wanted to come.

“I’m fine.” He said, while filling out the depression and anxiety screen that is given to every teenager at every visit. Just as we check blood pressures and blood sugars to screen for hypertension and diabetes, depression screens are a useful tool to assess for early signs of mental distress or illness.

I could see why his mother was worried from across the exam room. His skin hung loose; he looked like a skeleton, and his eyes seemed to suggest he had not been sleeping well.

“My girlfriend is worried about me.” He looked up from the form, his blue eyes seeming larger against his gaunt face. He had been scribbling circles all over the empty spaces.

“Why do you think that?” I asked quietly, observing his right foot shaking back and forth like a rattlesnake’s tail, giving warning before it strikes.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders and turned his eyes towards the window. The sun was peeping through the slats of the dusty gray Venetian blinds.

We then talked about his parents’ faith and his “non-faith”. “I’m a practicing agnostic, I don’t believe in God right now, but I go to church every Sunday, because my parents make me.”

I was amazed he even went. “You are a good son, to go to church with your mom and dad, even if you don’t want to. A lot of teenagers might yell and put up a fuss. I admire you for still going.”

Greg shrugged his shoulders again but turned his face towards me. His eyebrows raised as if in surprise.

I ended our time together telling him I’d be praying for him and would send referrals to a couple of places for further investigation about his recent weight loss. I had ordered lab work, and we talked about meeting up again in a few weeks to review his results. I said goodbye and quickly prayed for him as I watched him leave the exam room, not realizing that I wouldn’t be able to review his lab results with him in the future.

***

The rest of the day was a blur. I saw my scheduled patients, rejoiced with mothers on their babies’ weight gain from their previous wellness exam, prescribed antibiotics for ear infections, ointments for skin rashes, and referred patients to various specialists, but my mind kept going back to Greg and his grieving parents.

Especially Greg’s mother. She had lost her only son.

My mother’s heart ached for her loss, for I, too, knew what it was like to lose my son.

And yet with Greg’s death, I see progress in my own grief journey.

“Remember your word to your servant, for you have given me hope. My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life.” Psalm 119: 49-50 (NIV).

My suffering has become smaller, more bite-sized over the last eight years since my son’s death. My devastation of grief has lessened and become more manageable since his suicide. I have discovered my new “normal,” and the new dance steps have been easier to maneuver as the days, weeks, months, and years fly by.

Now I glimpse others' suffering in a new light.

My own journey through grief has transformed how I perceive their pain. Instead of viewing others’ struggles as distant or unrelated, I feel a deeper empathy and understanding. My perspective has shifted from passive sympathy to active engagement, and I am moved to reach out and support those who are suffering, even more, knowing how much comfort a caring presence can bring.

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Day 30: I’m thankful for the first day of Advent. It is the season for anticipation, reflection, and preparation as we remember the story of Jesus’ birth.

The Jewish people had also been waiting for a happy ending in the person of the Messiah. This Messiah was to come and drive out the present Roman authorities when John the Baptist, a cousin of Jesus of Nazareth, was born. John’s mother, Elizabeth, had been unable to get pregnant. An infertile woman during this time was considered an outcast; it was an indication of some divine disfavor and brought dishonor to the family. We don’t know why Elizabeth was unable to have children. She may have been in menopause or had some other medical condition that caused her infertility. Nevertheless, we know the Bible declared she was “upright in the sight of God, observing the commandments and regulations blamelessly” (Luke 1:6).

According to J.R.R. Tolkien, a eucatastrophe occurred while John’s father was working in the Temple of Herod.^[1] An angel of the Lord appeared and told him that Elizabeth was to have a baby, even in her old age. His name was to be John, and he would be filled with the Holy Spirit, helping to bring people back to God (Luke 1:5-17).

The Bible says that after John reached adulthood, he emerged from the wilderness, bursting through the silence and bringing not a sword but words of repentance; the world was ready for a change. He came to prepare people and gave them a glimpse of spring. John came to bring hope to a darkened world. John was not the light, but he came as a witness to the light to come (John 1:8).

The prophet Zechariah stated that John would play an important role in the future, preparing the way for Jesus.

The birth of Jesus was the ultimate eucatastrophic event.

In his incarnation, Jesus voluntarily became like us, born to an unwed teenager, to live among us, who experienced all the joys, hurts, and pains of a human being. Jesus got tired, thirsty, and hungry, and wept for his dead friend. Because Jesus was tempted and suffered, Jesus knows our pain. At the same time, Jesus is God; he was at the beginning when God created the world. Jesus cares about his creation, and though he had no sin, he took our sin upon himself and died on the cross. “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8 NIV).

After Jesus’ death, his disciples went into hiding, scared that the ones who killed their friend would also try to kill them since they were his followers. They had lost sight of the light. Jesus had died, and now they were lost in their grief. They had not yet realized that the ultimate eucatastrophe had already occurred.

They needed to see Jesus and have their happy ending.

Jesus’ death on the cross was intended to be another disaster story for humankind. Satan used evil men to kill Jesus. Tolkien called this a dyscatastrophe, dus (bad, ill, hard, difficult); instead, Satan defeated himself when Jesus defeated death by rising from the dead. The eucatastrophe of the resurrection offers the most incredible happy ending possible, demonstrating that evil and death cannot prevail.

Robins seen in the Pacific Northwest in January are a type of eucatastrophe; they give glimmers of hope. It means that spring is around the corner, even though it’s still winter. Before the crocuses and daffodils begin to peek through the still-frozen soil, when depression overwhelms me, the loss of my son envelopes my mind once again, and a robin’s unexpected arrival gives me a glimmer of what is yet to come. Robins let us know the light is coming. Every day, there will be more and more light with each passing twenty-four hours until there is more light in the day than darkness. Then we know spring has arrived.

Jesus is my ultimate hope in the darkest part of winter. He reminds me, in him, my spring is always coming, and death is not the end.

One day, when it is my turn to die and leave this earth, I, by faith, will finally see Jesus face to face, standing with outstretched arms, welcoming me home. There will be many others who have gone before me, including Sebastian, waiting to see my homecoming, but then it will no longer matter.

There will be no more tears, no more mourning, only Jesus.

Jesus always gives me hope.

Thank you for reading my 30-day journey of gratitude through grief stories. If these stories of grief and hope spoke to you, consider joining my community. Sign up for my newsletter to receive reflections, encouragement, updates, and news about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide. Let’s move forward together with courage and compassion.

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^[1] Tolkien, J. R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories. Harper Collins, 2014. Tolkien coined the word eucatastrophe. He asserted that all good stories (fairy tales) must have a happy ending. Catastrophe comes from two Greek words meaning down or downward, and I turn. Combined, it originally meant the harrowing end in a Greek tragedy. Adding the Greek word “eu” (good) to the beginning of the word “catastrophe” creates the new word eucatastrophe, which means an unexpected happy ending when all hope seems lost.

Day 29: I’m thankful for my daughter; over the years, she has helped me slow down and enjoy life more.

August 21, 1996: I clutched Isabel in the crook of my right arm; her swollen eyes closed, and she automatically turned her pink head, rooted around my breast with her open mouth as if frantically searching for something she didn’t know was lost; then, without forethought, latched onto my swollen nipple, she began to suck…hard. It was as if she had done this her whole life. I winced and held her tighter, trying to get comfortable in our uncomfortable hospital bed. I bent my head and touched my nose to her perfectly formed bald head, inhaling her newness; she smelled fresh, like spring after a morning shower. I couldn’t take my eyes off her face; she made cute little gulping noises that were accentuated by the unusual quietness of our hospital room.

We were all alone.

Twenty-four hours earlier, Steve had helped me bring Isabel Catherine into this world; our friend Rick, a physician colleague of Steve’s, stood by, according to Steve, “Just in case something goes wrong.” Twenty-eight months prior, Steve had unintentionally delivered Isabel’s older brother, Sebastian. He had to deliver Isabel. In my mother’s heart, I knew that someday Sebastian would remind Isabel that Papa had delivered him, not her. And even though Steve was hesitant (he had delivered hundreds of babies prior to Isabel’s birth by this time), he successfully guided our firstborn daughter into our earthly lives.

I sobbed tears of joy when Steve laid Isabel on my breast after her birth. I never, in my wildest dreams, thought this day would happen. God had given me a beautiful little girl. I felt God’s presence surround me in that hospital room, warming Isabel and me as if we were in a snug, cozy cocoon. God was happy for me. I was content and my life complete.

“Isabel,” I cooed to her while she continued to suck, mindless of the world around her. I reached out and touched her tiny pink hand with my forefinger. She instinctively grabbed it and held on tight. Her grip reflex was perfect.

“We have to take advantage of this time alone. It’s just you and me.” She opened her blue eyes for a moment and stared up at me. I knew she could only see shadows, but I knew somehow she was “seeing” me, and her head bobbed up and down as if in agreement with my words.

“Your big brother Sebastian is waiting impatiently for me at home. He’s not sure what to do with you yet.” I laughed at that thought, and Isabel popped off my nipple and started to squirm, rooting again until she latched back on.

Steve brought Sebastian to meet his little sister a few hours later. Our neighbors, the Kings, had kept him the night we went to the hospital. Leslie told me later that he’d slept on the floor next to her bed. He’d never been away from me before.

Sebastian looked like a young boy now. His piercing blue eyes surveyed the pink bundle wriggling in my arms with caution. He was still nursing, though now just in the morning when he woke up. It had been our cuddle time. He raised his white-blonde head, and with furrowed brows he looked up at me, lifted both his hands, and said, “Up, Momma.”

Sebastian cuddled on my left side and looked at Isabel on my right. He pulled her blanket from her face and, without my asking or telling, kissed her forehead. “My baby,” he announced to the room, and then he promptly bopped her on the head with his hand. That would not be the last time.

“Once we get home, your life will never be the same.” I told Isabel after Steve took Sebastian home. She was latched to my breast again and had been nursing for a few minutes. “He will want my attention. I told him he has to let you nurse first because you need my milk to grow and keep healthy. He has to learn how to share. I’m not sure how it’s going to go.” Isabel’s sucking lightened a bit. “He will be the best big brother, “I chuckled, “once he gets over the fact that life is not all about him.”

Isabel’s lips slackened on my nipple; she was fast asleep.

She was a beautiful baby, and she was all mine. I kissed her forehead and whispered, “I didn’t know if I would be able to love you as much as I loved Sebastian. Before you were born, I was so worried. What if I didn’t love you like you needed and deserved to be loved? As your birth day came closer, I kept ruminating over and over, How do mothers do this? Love another being as much as they love their first child?

I glanced away from Isabel for a moment and peered out the sun-filled window. It was already 91 degrees. Steve mentioned we might hit 100 degrees by the afternoon. If I raised my hand towards the window, I could feel the heat through the glass pane as it seeped into our air-conditioned room. I looked down at Isabel’s sleeping form; she had managed to find her thumb and was now sucking on it. I continued to whisper, “But you know what Isabel? it happened-I didn’t even have to try. I find I have more than enough love inside me to love you as much as I love your brother. I didn’t have to worry.” I smiled at this realization and closed my eyes and rested for a moment.

My eyes popped open, and my body tensed up when Isabel nuzzled her face into my swollen breast and started rooting once again. My brain began to churn, and suddenly I had a list of things I wanted to tell her before we left the comfort of our little hospital nest.

I stroked her face with the tip of my finger, “Well Isabel, in a few hours it’ll be time to get ready and face the world. I have the cutest white homecoming outfit for you to wear. But now I wonder if you’ll be too hot.” I heard her sigh in agreement. “When we walk out that door, life will come crashing in, but know this no matter what happens in your life, in our life…you are loved and cherished…not just by me or your father…but by God himself. God loves you so much and He loved you so much that He made me your mama. He knew I could take care of you and raise you up and teach you how to live in this world. And just know this… I love you so much and would do anything to protect you. And one day you will come to know that God loves you even more than me.”

I squeezed Isabel closer to my chest as tears of happiness welled up in my eyes.

“I can’t wait to tell you how God showed up in my life and loved me unlike anyone else. I want you to know how God rescued me from my past, how He’s with me today and how He will be with me and you no matter what happens to us in the future.”

“I can’t wait for you to hear that story. He is our happy ending.”

Almost thirty years ago, I welcomed Isabel into the world. Watching her grow into the remarkable woman she is today has been the greatest blessing of my life.

Over the years, I have watched her navigate the ups and downs of childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, each stage marked by her resilience, kindness, and infectious curiosity. Isabel loved her brother fiercely, and I know she still misses him. Through every joy and sorrow, Isabel has shown me what it means to truly love, to persevere, and to bring light into the lives of others. I am endlessly grateful to share this journey with her, and my love and pride for her only deepen with each passing year.

Through Isabel, I have learned the importance of savoring simple pleasures. Whether it’s sharing a favorite movie together or planning an unexpected day at Disneyland, she has brought joy into my world—not only as a child but also as an adult. It’s memories like these that remind me how grateful I am for her presence, her love, and for the love of Jesus we both share together.

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Day 28: I’m grateful for scars; they remind me that over time, healing has taken place.

Nine Thanksgivings have now come and gone since Sebastian first left us.

My grief has lessened over the years; it’s not nearly as overwhelming anymore. Grief is like a scar that remains after a past injury has finally healed. In the same way, as an open wound bleeds profusely, likewise fresh grief bleeds. We can’t always stop the hemorrhaging of our broken hearts.

But while the wound is gushing copious amounts of blood all over us and we are frantically trying to stop the bleeding, a miracle, unbeknownst to us, has already started. Within seconds, blood cells start clumping together, knitting the wound and protecting it, and eventually, the bleeding stops. Healing has begun, and we didn’t even know it. Within days, scabs develop, and over time, scars replace the once-damaged area.

The pain begins to fade as the wound heals.

Scars, like grief, take a long time to heal—longer than we expect. Initially, the scar appears red, swollen, and misshapen. It can be painful when touched or bumped. The healed area can have a limited range of motion, and the replacement tissue is never as strong as the original. Scars never go away; by the same token, grief never really goes away. They are both constant reminders of what happened in the past. But, with God’s help, the mended tissue of grief slowly fades with each passing year until you hardly notice it.

God spoke to his people through the prophet Isaiah about a man of sorrows. This man, familiar with suffering and grief, would be despised by the leaders of his day and not be held in high esteem. He’d take on the pain and punishment of the entire world and die for the transgressions of those he loved. This man would bring peace. Isaiah proclaimed,

After his resurrection from the dead, Jesus showed himself to his disciples, and they were overjoyed. Of the eleven followers, only Thomas was missing. Later, when his friends shared the excellent news with Thomas, he didn’t believe that Jesus was indeed alive. Thomas said he needed to see and touch the scars where the nails had pierced Jesus’ hands and feet.

These scars showed the world that what happened to Jesus was true.

A week later, Jesus showed himself again to the apostles. He approached Thomas and said, “Put your finger here; see my hands, reach out your hand, and put it into my side. “Stop doubting and believe” (John 20:27). Thomas believed when he saw the scars. Jesus said, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29b).

These same scars declare what Jesus did for me.

God showed His love and compassion to me by sending His Son, Jesus, born at Christmas time as a human baby in Bethlehem. Jesus became like me in every way possible, yet he did not sin. Jesus suffered more than I have suffered; therefore, he understands my pain. Jesus did what no one else was able to do: dying on a cross, dying in my place, that I might have peace, healing in my grief, and forgiveness.

If my story of grief and hope spoke to you, consider joining my community. Sign up for my newsletter to receive reflections, encouragement, updates, and news about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide. Let’s move forward together with courage and compassion.

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Day 27: I’m grateful for Thanksgiving dinner traditions with friends who, over the years, have truly become family.

Each year, as we gather around the table with our dear friends to share favorite dishes and stories, I am reminded of how these moments have helped me heal and grow through grief. The laughter, the warmth, and the comfort of familiar faces bring a sense of belonging and peace that is irreplaceable. We honor old traditions and create new ones, building memories that carry us through both joyful and challenging seasons. These friends have stood by me, offering support and understanding, and together we have woven a tapestry of love and gratitude that continues to strengthen with each passing Thanksgiving. In the midst of loss, these celebrations have become a beacon of hope, reminding me that family can be found in the hearts of those who choose to walk alongside us, sharing both our pain and our joy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Day 26: I am grateful for my husband Steve, who has supported me for thirty-five years and helped me through eight years of grief after losing Sebastian. His presence has strengthened our relationship and our faith.

Thirty-five Novembers ago, just before Thanksgiving and about a month after our first kiss, Steve knelt on the sands of Laguna Beach, California, at exactly 4:46 PM—sunset. He reached into his camera bag and pulled out a little blue box. My heart raced as he opened the box, and tears of joy filled my eyes when I realized what was happening. Then, he asked me to marry him.

In which I promptly yelled, “You want to marry ME?”

And then I quickly shouted, “Yes!”

We sat on the shore and watched as the last vivid reds and oranges of sunset slowly faded into the horizon. The steady rhythm of crashing waves filled the air. Amidst that sound, I distinctly heard the haunting melody of a cello playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D from above me. I turned around and looked up. At the top of the windblown rocky cliff, I noticed a gazebo. A wedding was taking place.

“Wouldn’t that be a great place to get married?” I gushed to Steve. I realized I could talk about these things now that we were engaged.

“It would, but it would probably be too small for all the people we need to invite.” Steve replied. “And I would want Bach played at our wedding, not Pachelbel. Everybody plays Pachelbel.” I laughed. Who knew Steve would have an opinion about the wedding?

Six days after I said, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” we barely had time to celebrate before everything changed. Steve received orders and, just 24 hours later, left to become one of the chief medical officers for 20,000 Marines of the Second Marine Division stationed at Camp Lejeune, South Carolina. Operation Desert Storm had begun. I was overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all, torn between excitement for our future and fear for what lay ahead.

Before Steve received his unexpected orders overseas, I had already picked out our wedding invitations and bought my dress; it was the first one I tried on.

“Now what do I do?” I asked myself out loud as I paced my apartment. My life had been upended in the space of a week. Should I cancel the venue? I was already trying to figure out how to change the wedding invitation date. Would it be tacky to black out the original date and handwrite a new one when I knew what the new date would be? My life was suddenly on hold, like a scratched record that was repeating the same word over and over again.

I hated being stuck. I didn’t want to wait.

Steve didn’t want to wait either. He was getting settled at the Marine Corps base in South Carolina, while I remained in California. The distance between us felt insurmountable, and with his deployment looming—destination unknown, but soon—I couldn’t even imagine visiting him without enormous difficulty.

“I miss you so much. Why don’t you come out in a couple of days?” Steve’s voice was warm but tinged with longing when he called two days after leaving. “I met the chaplain on base, and he and his wife said they’d love for you to stay with them.”

My heart ached at his invitation, but I hesitated. “I can’t,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Steve’s tone turned gentle and concerned. “Why not? Is everything okay?”

I took a shaky breath, searching for the right words. Every time I thought about seeing Steve, my heart raced with both excitement and fear. The uncertainty of his deployment weighed heavily on me, stirring up memories of other goodbyes and the ache of waiting. “It’s just… I worry that if I see you now, things might move too fast between us. I want to wait until we’re married. My stress is so high right now—we have no idea what’s going to happen or when you’ll be leaving. I just think it’s best if we wait.”

I hung up, the ache of missing him mixing with a sense of resolve. I didn’t know what the future would hold, but I reminded myself to trust God, no matter how uncertain things felt.

The next day, Steve was back on the phone. “I figured out a way to get you out here.”

“How’s that?” I asked. I dreaded not seeing him before he shipped to the Middle East. He still didn’t know when he’d be leaving, but he thought it would be around Christmas Eve. A little over two weeks away.

“Well, I talked to my new boss about our dilemma.” He paused, the weight of the moment settling between us, and I heard him take a deep breath before slowly exhaling. “How about we get married in four days?” My breath caught in my throat, stunned by the abruptness and gravity of his suggestion. My heart pounded as a thousand questions raced through my mind, uncertainty mingling with excitement. I knew his deployment was looming, and this might be our only chance to be together before he left. It was a whirlwind possibility, both terrifying and thrilling. I let out my breath as he quickly added, “I can get four days leave for a honeymoon and then you can come back with me and spend the rest of the time with me until I leave.”

“I could do that,” I said without hesitation. “I can plan a wedding in four days.”

Looking back after almost 35 years of marriage (Dec 12th), I can clearly see God’s hand in every detail leading up to our wedding and beyond. Each step—every moment of hesitation, every leap of faith—was woven into a story that taught me about love, trust, and hope. The uncertainty we faced, the hurried plans, and the nerves before saying “I do” have become cherished memories that shaped the foundation of our life together. I’m deeply thankful for Steve, not only for his love and dedication, but for his courage to take risks for us, even when the future was unknown.

Not long after Sebastian died, a well-meaning Christian friend, who had been a part of our lives for many years, visited us. In the midst of this intense time of grief, she casually mentioned to Steve and me, “Did you know the divorce rate is high after losing a child to suicide?”

Despite the pain we faced, over time we discovered that our shared loss actually led to personal growth and resilience, strengthening our relationship after losing Sebastian. Clinging to God and supporting each other in prayer was vital, even when words or comfort seemed impossible. We came to understand and accept that we each grieved in our own way. By being gentle with each other and holding on to the hope of Jesus, our marriage not only endured but deepened through this unimaginable sorrow. I am reminded that trusting in God’s timing made all the difference, and I cherish every moment we have been given.

If my story of grief and hope spoke to you, consider joining my community. Sign up for my newsletter to receive reflections, encouragement, updates, and news about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide. Let’s move forward together with courage and compassion.

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Day 25: I am profoundly grateful for being part of a community of fellow Christ followers who offer supportive spaces for grieving, celebrating, sharing joy and sorrow, and growing together in our faith.

Before Sebastian passed away, my husband and I were part of a church community group. After his death, though, everything felt different. I remember feeling completely overwhelmed by the idea of walking into that familiar room, where everyone knew me but now saw me through the lens of my loss. Steve still went, and the women from the group would reach out with texts and messages filled with compassion and encouragement. Yet, every time my phone buzzed, a wave of exhaustion and sadness washed over me—I couldn’t bring myself to respond. It wasn’t that I rejected their kindness, but I feared their sympathy might make the pain feel even more real, and I wasn’t ready to let others witness the rawness of my grief. Sometimes we can’t go back because healing looks different for everyone, and sometimes distance is what we need most.

Over the last few years, Steve and I slowly found our way back to a place where we felt comfortable joining a community group again. The sense of belonging and hope eventually gave us the courage to lead a couple of community groups ourselves, supporting others in life and learning to live as Christ Followers.

Our current community group consists of families who, after being away from church for several years, have recently returned to find support and connection. Many shared that they missed the sense of belonging that comes with being part of a faith community. They realized how much they needed a place where their family could be known and supported, where they could ask questions and grow in faith together. The group’s shared desire to dive deeper into God’s word has been a source of encouragement for all of us as we walk this life journey together.

By trusting God and allowing ourselves to be vulnerable as we shared our grief story about Sebastian, we discovered that opening up created space and safety for others to share their own stories. During one of our community group gatherings, a husband, moved to tears, said, “I watched how you (Steve) and Jackie share your story about your son and how you couldn’t have done it without Jesus. I see you still have hope. I began to realize I could share my story too.” Moments like these show us how sharing our lives not only honors Sebastian’s memory but also encourages others to find comfort and hope in their own experiences. Sharing stories can inspire hope and deepen connections within our faith community.

Community has taught me that no matter our circumstances, God can bring light into the darkest places, using our pain to build deeper relationships and offer renewed hope to others. In our deepest sorrow, God surrounds us with people who reflect His love and compassion. In the same way, our vulnerability can give others the strength to open up, and those honest conversations can become the foundation for deeper friendships and healing. I’m thankful for how God can use us, even in our brokenness, to bring hope to others and remind us that light can always break through the darkness.

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Day 24: I’m grateful for my weaknesses—they remind me I need Jesus.

“Scotty, I can’t lead my small group anymore.”

Three months had passed since Sebastian’s death. I had been guiding a small group of six teenage girls for the past two years, with the intention to continue until their high school graduation. Our weekly gatherings for food, fellowship, Bible study, and life sharing had been such a joy. But after Sebastian’s passing, I found myself unable to meet with them, consumed by the overwhelming grief of losing my son.

I had confided in Scotty, our church youth pastor, my concerns about continuing to lead this group. I wasn’t in the best place emotionally to lead anyone. I was still a mess, and I was still crying all the time. Hence, instead of giving me the standard pat answer of,” It’s OK, I totally understand why you can’t do this anymore,” he instead challenged me with these words,

“You know, Jackie, I still think you should continue meeting with your girls.”

I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out, and I responded with, “But I’m not even reading my Bible anymore. I can’t lead a Bible study. My brain isn’t working anymore.”

It was then that Scotty offered a perspective I had not considered. He suggested, “I believe it’s important for you to continue meeting with them, not for a structured Bible study, but for them to witness how you are navigating this profound loss of Sebastian.”

He smiled and repeated, “Allow them see you grieve and live your life.”

Therefore, I did. Not because I wanted to, but because my pastor challenged me to live out my faith amid my painful grief. My girls (as I lovingly called them) saw me cry almost every week. I talked about Sebastian, and we prayed together. We laughed, cried, and ate a lot of cheese pizza. I attended their music concerts, sat through numerous other school programs, and sat in the audience of each of their high school graduations two years later. It was exhausting and rewarding at the same time. We did life together, and I’m glad I listened to Scotty. This experience reaffirmed my belief in the healing power of faith.

Even in our grief, it’s our tendency, at least in American culture, not to appear weak. We want people to think we are doing great when we are not. We don’t want to be a burden, but in reality, we are not. We need to admit when we need help, and when we do, it will be amazing how much better we will begin to feel. Admitting one’s weakness is essential to experiencing God’s help. The apostle Paul was not afraid to write about his shortcomings; throughout his letters in the New Testament, he teaches that acknowledging our own weakness allows God’s strength and will to shine through us. He proclaimed that God’s will is revealed when we admit our weaknesses. “In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans” (Romans 8:26). We can be encouraged by Paul’s words when he wrote, “If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness” (2 Corinthians 11:30). Paul’s letters encourage us and permit us to share our pain and suffering with God.

In the midst of unimaginable sorrow, choosing vulnerability and authenticity allowed me to discover unexpected strength and healing by embracing my weakness and sharing my journey with others. No matter how broken we feel, allowing God to use our “weaknesses” can be a profound step toward healing, reminding us that we are never alone, because God walks with us in our messy mourning.

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Day 23: I am grateful for the rejuvenating qualities of the many waterfalls throughout the Pacific Northwest.

I am fortunate to call one of the most beautiful regions on earth my home, where I explore unforgettable hikes along winding trails beneath towering evergreens and past dazzling waterfalls like those in the Columbia River Gorge, home to over ninety waterfalls—each showcasing nature’s abundance and artistry.

Some of my favorite hikes include moments when I’ve witnessed the yellow sunflower beds at the top of Dog Mountain. After a strenuous climb to the summit, I was greeted by an endless carpet of golden blooms stretching toward the horizon, their vibrant petals swaying gently in the breeze. The sweeping views of the Columbia River below, framed by lush, sun-dappled landscape, create a scene so breathtaking it feels almost surreal. Surrounded by cheerful sunflowers and the wild beauty of the Pacific Northwest, I find a moment of joy and gratitude, reminded once again of nature’s power to heal and inspire.

On Hamilton Mountain, I’ve experienced a myriad of weather patterns in a single hike—rain, sleet, snow, sun, wind, and fog—all within the course of a 7.5-mile journey to the 2,488-foot peak. Each ascent on this iconic trail is an unpredictable adventure, as the elements shift rapidly, painting the landscape with ever-changing moods. One moment, thick fog might shroud the path, muffling the world in soft gray silence; the next, a sudden burst of sunlight pierces through the clouds, illuminating mossy rocks and the forest floor in a golden glow. I’ve felt icy sleet sting my cheeks and watched fleeting snow flurries dust the trail, transforming the terrain into a winter wonderland, only to have the wind sweep it all away. The rain, sometimes gentle, sometimes relentless, brings out the earthy scents of pine and cedar, while gusts of wind rustle the towering evergreens overhead, reminding me of nature’s raw power. These dramatic shifts heighten every sense and deepen my connection to the wild beauty of the Pacific Northwest, making each hike up Hamilton Mountain a memorable and invigorating experience.

Walking the steep one-mile trail to the top of Multnomah Falls, the tallest waterfall in Oregon at 620 feet, mist floats gently across my skin. I pause to breathe in the invigorating spray, feeling each drop awaken my senses. As I climbed higher, the rhythmic rush of water grew louder, filling the air with a soothing roar that drowns out my worries and draws me into the present moment. The trail winds through lush greenery, with towering ferns and moss-covered rocks lining the path, creating a natural cathedral beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Each step brings a sense of accomplishment and anticipation, as glimpses of the waterfall appear through breaks in the foliage, beckoning me onward.

When I finally reached the top, the view revealed a breathtaking panorama of the Columbia River Gorge, stretching out beneath a sky often painted in shades of gray and blue. Standing there, bathed in the cool mist and enveloped by immense natural beauty, I am struck by the steady drizzle of rain mixed with the roar of the waterfall, making the world feel both wild and comforting. In that moment, surrounded by the thunderous music and shimmering mist, I feel a deep connection not only to the landscape but to something greater—a sense of hope and renewal rising above grief. The beauty and resilience of these waterfalls remind me that healing can be found in unexpected places and that nature’s gifts are always available, waiting to inspire and restore.

Surrounded by such awe-inspiring scenery, I am filled with gratitude and a desire to discover more. These experiences continue to deepen my appreciation for the Pacific Northwest, teaching me that even in moments of sorrow, there is wonder to be found. The waterfalls, with their timeless flow and ever-changing grace, encourage me to move forward with courage and curiosity.

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Day 22: I’m thankful for my health and sincerely appreciate the ability to walk, breathe, and exist without physical limitations.

In January, just one year after our wedding, my husband, Steve, and I left the sun-drenched warmth of Southern California behind. We moved to Washington State so he could continue his family practice residency. The transition felt like stepping from one world into another—I traded the golden light, dry breezes, and endless blue skies for the persistent drizzle, cool dampness, and a grayness that seemed to press in from every window. I hadn’t anticipated how the rain would become a constant companion in my new life in the Pacific Northwest, and a deep depression began to take hold in my soul. Mornings greeted me not with the promise of sunshine, but with muted light and heavy clouds that dimmed my spirits and sometimes made the simple act of getting out of bed feel more difficult. While I felt excitement for the new chapter and pride in supporting Steve’s ambitions, I remember carrying a quiet nervousness—wondering whether I was truly prepared for how the endless rain and overcast skies would shape my routines and my mood. I expected change, but I hadn’t realized how deeply the weather would seep into the rhythms of my life.

The rain fell for forty straight days.

I had an uneasy feeling that I now understood how Noah must have felt, confined to an ark as it rained for forty days, amid the incessant noise and smells of the different animals and creatures he had to care for around him. Much like Noah, I found myself enveloped by the relentless sound of rain tapping on the roof and windows, a constant background to my days and nights. The sense of being trapped indoors, watching the world outside blur into a watery gray, created a strange mix of isolation and responsibility—almost as if I, too, was tasked with shepherding my little world safely through a storm.

As the days dragged on, the comparison to Noah grew stronger in my mind. The monotony of the weather, the dampness that crept into every corner of our home, and the feeling of stagnation weighed heavily on me. I imagined Noah’s days filled with uncertainty, tending restless animals and longing for the sun, much as I longed for bright skies again.

After lamenting to a dearly missed Californian friend, I decided I had to leave my house and go out in the rain. After buying suitable rain gear, I took a deep breath, took my first step, and ventured out to face the downpour, ready to begin walking in my neighborhood. Walking would become a defining experience in my life. I learned to love walking, then running, in the rain.

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is walk out the door.

Now, every morning for over forty years, I walk, run, hike, or do something active. It has become a habit that I love; it’s no longer a chore to check off, but something I genuinely enjoy. This transformation has not only given me physical strength but also lifted my spirits and brought a sense of purpose and gratitude into my everyday life, positively impacting my outlook and well-being.

Even after Sebastian died, I walked; I had to.

In those moments, walking became more than a routine—it was a lifeline. Each step along the quiet, rain-soaked streets gave me space to feel the weight of grief and let the emotions flow. The rhythm of my footsteps matched the rhythm of my thoughts, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, as I navigated the loss and confusion that followed Sebastian’s passing. Walking offered me the privacy to grieve honestly, to let the tears fall freely with only the sound of rain and my own heartbeat for company. With the Bible playing in my ears, I found a measure of comfort in scripture and sacred music, letting words of hope and faith slowly mend the broken pieces of my heart. Sometimes I would lift my voice in song, or even shout my pain into the open air, trusting that God heard every cry. This daily practice became a healing ritual—a way to reconnect with God, and discover new strength to face each day. Walking, in its simplicity, restored a sense of purpose, helping me move forward, even when standing still felt impossible.

I recognize that good health is a gift not everyone enjoys, and I make a conscious effort not to take this for granted. Each morning, waking up with strength and energy reminds me just how precious my well-being is. I am grateful for every day that my body supports me, allowing me to experience life fully and pursue the things that bring me joy and purpose.

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If my story of grief and hope spoke to you, consider joining my community. Sign up for my newsletter to receive reflections, encouragement, updates, and news about my upcoming book, Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide. Let’s move forward together with courage and compassion.

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