Grief, Grace, and the Cross

I woke this morning to the sound of birds singing in beautiful Pennsylvania. If you had ever asked me if I thought this would be my life—spending months each year in PA—I probably would’ve laughed and said, “Why would I do that?” Yet, here I am.

To be honest, I’m not sure how to put into words the emotions that flood my heart today. Easter falls a little later this year, and for that, I’m grateful. Most years, I’ve spent Easter here in Pennsylvania with my oldest grandson, Jackson. He doesn’t get a spring break, but he gets a few extra days off around Easter, and I try to make the most of them. I only get to see him a couple of times a year, so when he’s off school, I do everything I can to be present.

The Lord has been gracious, providing in ways that allow me to stay connected to Christopher’s son, even after his daddy’s passing. The trade-off is hard, though. Being in PA for Easter means being away from my husband, my home church, and the rest of our grandchildren. There's a kind of guilt that comes with that—missing out on celebrating with them. But maybe, in a strange way, it brings some relief to them too, not having to juggle all the moving parts.

It’s a sweet and bitter mix—grief and joy, sorrow and gratitude, all at the same table. It takes time to understand that there’s room for all of it.

For those who don’t know, I lost my dad when I was just six months old. Four years later, my grandparents lost their son, my uncle. My mom made sure I stayed connected to that side of my family. Growing up, most holidays were spent with them. Easter morning, we’d wake up to inflatable rabbits dressed in little outfits my grandparents had bought us. I still have a ride-on plastic rabbit from those days—green wheels still attached, pink ears long lost. It wobbles when you sit on it now, but it’s a memory that brings me joy.

We’d go to church, grab lunch, and then head to the cemetery. As a child, I didn’t realize what that meant for my grandparents—to celebrate Easter while grieving their sons. I never imagined my own story would mirror theirs so closely—burying my firstborn, Christopher, on Good Friday in 2016. My grandfather also died on Easter morning. These aren’t just dates on a calendar for me—they’re deeply woven into my heart.

Good Friday. Good for humanity, for you and me—but it must not have felt very good for Mary, Jesus’ mother. Can you imagine her story? A young, unwed mother. The whispers, the judgment, the uncertainty. And yet, chosen. She was chosen to carry the Son of God. I often wonder if she ever asked, “Why me?”—just like I have.

We tend to forget that even though she bore the King of Kings, Mary was still human. She had fears, doubts, exhaustion. She rode a donkey for miles while heavily pregnant, she and Joseph had to travel to Bethlehem to be counted in the census. I could barely get comfortable in a recliner late in pregnancy—imagine riding a donkey.

I picture her arriving, tired and sore, only to find there were no rooms. Giving birth in a stable, on a blanket among animals. No sterile tools. No pain relief. Yet there, in the humblest of places, the Savior of the world was born.

She wrapped Him in rags and laid Him in a manger—a feed trough. And somehow, I don’t think she worried about germs or swine flu. I imagine instead the awe she felt when the wise men arrived, honoring her baby boy. In today’s world, we plan everything—pediatricians, hospitals, birthing plans. But Mary trusted God with her son. That’s a hard kind of trust.

I imagine toddler Jesus running around with those chubby fingers holding Mary’s hand, his laughter echoing through their home. Her pride as He grew, her anxiety as He began His ministry. Can you imagine knowing your child would walk into suffering, into the desert, into betrayal, and into death?

Good Friday—a day when Mary stood, watching her blameless son be beaten, mocked, and crucified. A mother’s worst nightmare. Her heart must have shattered. I remember when Chris died—I needed to hold anything he had touched. I still press my face to his clothes, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of his scent. I wonder if Mary felt the same way when they cast lots for Jesus’ robe.

Then the sky went dark.

She wept. She mourned. She didn’t know it wasn’t the end.

As she stood at the empty tome, the angels asked why she cried, and she answered, “They’ve taken my Lord.” Even in the presence of angels, her grief was blinding. Then Jesus Himself appeared. She didn’t recognize Him—until she did. And in that moment, mourning turned to joy.

Good Friday—devastating, yet beautiful. Jesus—sinless, faultless—hung on that cross for us. For our eternity. For our hope. For those of us who have lost children and loved ones. For the broken, the weary, the sinner, the saint.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
– John 3:16

On March 25, 2016, we celebrated my baby boy’s life. It was Good Friday. Only God could have orchestrated that.

I believe with all my heart that the body we held and loved here on earth met Jesus face to face. I know he worships at His feet now. And yet, most days, the ache remains. The weight of all the hopes and dreams that will never be still presses on my heart.

I can feel, in the deepest way, the pain of another mother who gave her son for the world.

What I wouldn’t give to have my boy back. For Jackson to have his dad. For Lauryn to have her soulmate. For his brothers to have their big brother.

Chris loved Jesus with all his heart. It’s what I hope he passed on more than anything—his faith. His love for Christ was never about religion—it was relationship. And I believe every one of my grandchildren is a seed of the righteous.

Today, I am not angry at God, though I’ve had those days. My heart is heavy, and the tears fall. I don’t expect that to change in this lifetime. But I know that it’s in the wounds, in the tears, in the broken places that God meets me most.

Burying Chris on Good Friday is just one of the many ways God has shown us that He sees us—even in the darkness. That He is faithful even in our deepest sorrow. That He alone is our hope.

Today, I am grateful for what God gave—life. What I could only offer my children temporarily, He has given eternally. I’m grateful that He poured out His Spirit on Chris, that He led him to salvation, and that grace carried him home.

I pray for my children and grandchildren, that their hearts remain tender. That God continues to draw them to Himself. There was a time I used to plead with God not to use anything “too hard” to bring them to surrender, not to let it be so shattering it would destroy me—but my prayer today is “whatever it takes Lord". I’ve walked through the valley before, and I know that with Jesus, I can walk through it again. By His grace, I am beauty from ashes.

As much as I love my children, I know Jesus loves them more.

Christopher was a gift. A sacred loan from Heaven. And when God’s work through Chris was done, He called him home. No one understands that pain more than the Father who gave His Son.

We may not know the “why,” but we can trust the Who.

One day, those who are saved by grace will see their loved ones again—in the radiant light of heaven and the glory of God.

Until then, would you join me in honoring my son…by being the

hands and feet of Jesus?

Much love,

Chrissy