Keeping your focus on Christ in the middle of difficult circumstances
One of the hardest parts about walking through grief is learning where to place your focus.
When difficult circumstances hit, it’s so easy to become consumed by them. The fear. The uncertainty. The overwhelm. The constant feeling like you can’t quite catch your breath.
And if I’m honest, this is something I still struggle with.
It’s easy for me to get caught up in everything happening around me and lose sight of Christ in the middle of it. Sometimes I focus so much on the fire itself that I forget what God may be doing through it.
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Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. And if you’re grieving, it can feel like a slap in the face. The cards. The chocolate. The flowers. Romantic movies. Couples celebrating each other. Everywhere you look, you are reminded of love, and the person you no longer have beside you. He’s not there to take you to dinner or give you flowers. She’s not handing you a card with a silly inside joke, just for you.
It’s hard to be reminded of what we’ve lost.
It’s painful to no longer receive the love that once felt so steady and secure.
You still love them deeply, but that love is no longer expressed in the same way.
This was so hard for me. I deeply loved Jon, and I missed him terribly. He was so good at telling me what he loved and valued about me on a regular basis, not just Valentine’s Day. He’d write me notes or call me from work and speak words of affirmation that strengthened my heart. Then suddenly, those words were gone.
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And If Not… He Is Still Good
A friend shared this recently: “And if not, He is still good” (Daniel 3:18).
I can’t tell you how much it resonated. Sometimes God answers our prayers differently than we hope—or not in the way we want at all. And yet, even when His answer doesn’t match our expectations, He is still good.
I know this truth deeply, not just in theory, but in life. Sixteen years ago, I became a widow while raising two young children. In one moment, my life as I knew it disappeared. Plans, dreams, identity, routines—all gone. I found myself asking the same questions I imagine many of you have: Why? Why now? Why like this?
And yet, even in that heart-wrenching season, I began to see glimpses of God’s goodness. I didn’t see them right away, and it took me a long time to choose to see His goodness. He gave me strength I didn’t know I had, kindness from friends and family I hadn’t expected, and a sense of peace that could only come from Him. I began learning that His goodness isn’t dependent on circumstances.
God is still good, even when a diagnosis is frightening.
God is still good, even when you lose a job you loved.
God is still good, even when a dream you’ve worked toward is lost.
God is still good, even when a loved one dies.
God is still good, even when you lose a job you loved.
God is still good, even when a dream you’ve worked toward is lost.
God is still good, even when a loved one dies.
Stepping Into 50 with Joy and Trust
As 2025 came to a close, you might have felt a lot of different things.
Maybe it was incredibly hard year, and you’re more than ready to leave it behind. Maybe it stretched you in ways you didn’t expect, or required more strength than you felt you had. Or maybe it was a good year — one that brought healing, growth, or renewed hope — and you’re curious about what 2026 might hold.
Wherever you find yourself, before rushing into the new year, I want to invite you to pause.
Not to dwell on the past.
Not to replay every mistake or painful moment.
But to reflect.
Not to replay every mistake or painful moment.
But to reflect.
What did 2025 teach you?
What did it reveal about your heart, your needs, your limits?
What do you want to carry with you into 2026 — and what might you gently lay down?
What did it reveal about your heart, your needs, your limits?
What do you want to carry with you into 2026 — and what might you gently lay down?
Joy in the Aftermath
The day after Christmas can bring a heaviness all its own — especially when you’re grieving. Maybe you spent weeks bracing yourself for Christmas without your spouse or loved one, expecting the day to be dramatic and emotionally overwhelming. But instead… it just felt quiet. Empty. Different in a way you can’t quite put into words.
And now it’s the day after, and what lingers isn’t the chaos or the intensity you prepared for.
It’s the ache.
The quiet realization that you still have to keep going.
There will be more holidays without him. More birthdays. More milestones he won’t be there for.
It’s the ache.
The quiet realization that you still have to keep going.
There will be more holidays without him. More birthdays. More milestones he won’t be there for.
And that realization can hit harder than Christmas Day itself.
I remember feeling this deeply as I approached the first anniversary of Jon’s death. I had braced myself so much for the “firsts” — the first Christmas, the first birthday, the first anniversary — that I hadn’t emotionally prepared for what came after. In some tucked-away part of my mind, I think I believed that if I could just make it through that first year, something would lift. That maybe the second Christmas would magically feel easier. That somehow reaching the anniversary would mark a turning point toward normalcy.
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