Finding Light in a Season of Loss: Hope, Grief, and the Promise of Christ

December is meant to sparkle with lights, music, and celebration—but this year, it feels quieter, heavier, carrying the weight of a heart missing someone irreplaceable.

In moments like this, I find comfort in Jesus’ words: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you?” (John 14:1-3)

These words bring me peace as I navigate this December without Mom—my husband’s mother, our Mom—who went home to be with Jesus last month. I have been abundantly blessed to have had her in my life, and already I miss our laughter together—our long talks, our times in the kitchen, and our relentless jabbing about who did most of the work on that 'd' puzzle. Mom poured love into every corner of our family, shaping our lives in ways that words can hardly capture. Her absence leaves a space that the holiday cheer cannot fill, yet it also reminds me how deeply one life can touch so many hearts.

Grief, it seems, does not pause for the calendar. It sits alongside the decorating, the baking, and the wrapping of gifts, insisting that it be noticed. And yet, December is about life. It is the month we anticipate the birth of Christ, the One who stepped into a world of sorrow and longing and brought hope, joy, and light.

There is a sacred tension here: the ache of absence held right alongside the anticipation of life. Grief does not cancel celebration; if anything, it deepens it. When we allow sadness and hope to sit together, we begin to see more clearly how God’s light still reaches into the shadows. 

This is the beauty of the incarnation—God taking on human flesh in the person of Jesus. He stepped into our world with all its limits and vulnerabilities, experiencing the same physical and emotional realities we know so well. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, not from a distance but right in the places where our hearts break. 

This truth reshapes my grief, reminding me that God understands it fully because He willingly entered it. And in seasons of loss, knowing that our Savior chose to walk into human suffering brings a kind of comfort nothing else can touch.

So this December, I honor her memory by following the example she set: noticing the little things, loving fully, and giving generously to those around me. Her life was a gift, and in remembering her, I see how the smallest acts of love ripple far beyond what we can imagine.

And in remembering her, I am drawn back to the small, ordinary moments that made her love so tangible. Our laughter over a tricky puzzle, the long talks that stretched into the evening, baking everyone’s favorite pies, even the noodles and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving—these are the pieces of her life that shaped mine. She had a remarkable gift for making each person feel truly known and loved. She asked questions that mattered—not just polite small talk, but questions that showed she wanted to understand our hearts, our families, our lives.

She had a way of making ordinary moments extraordinary. Long afternoons spent working on puzzles were filled with laughter, playful teasing, and conversations that brought us closer together. She remembered the little things, too, like making sure our favorite dish was ready whenever we visited—a simple act that said, “I see you. I care for you.” In doing this for each of us, she became the gift herself. Her love and attentiveness shaped our family and continue to shape me. And in this season, I also celebrate the new life we anticipate—the Christ who comes to bring hope, healing, and joy to hearts like mine that are heavy with loss.

Perhaps this season, we can all embrace this tension. We can mourn what has ended and celebrate what is beginning. We can sit with sadness and still welcome hope. We can hold memory and expectation side by side, letting the past inform our gratitude and the future stir our anticipation. 

This December, I carry her memory in the way she carried all of us—through love, attentiveness, and the quiet care she poured into everyday moments. I grieve her absence, but I also celebrate the ways her life shaped mine and the ways God continues to meet me in the midst of loss. May we embrace the full spectrum of our hearts—remembering those we have loved and lost, and opening space for the life, hope, and light Christ brings into our world, our families, and even the quietest corners of our hearts.

Blessings,