Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. . . .
But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, that I may tell of all your works. – Psalm 73:25-26, 28

It has now been seven years since my husband Mike, a PCA pastor, went home to be with Jesus. As I look back over those years—both the hard days of watching Mike prepare for eternity and the early seasons of widowhood—I see clearly how God’s steadfast love and faithfulness sustained me. In that reflection, I’ve learned lessons that have produced hope, even in the heart of sorrow.

First, worship has anchored me. My pastor often speaks of worship in the sanctuary, the living room, and the closet, and in every one of these places, God has reminded me of who He is. In the sanctuary, I’m reminded weekly that Jesus is risen and that eternity is real. Through preaching, praise, and prayer, I’m strengthened with truth. It won’t surprise you that I also find and experience worship with the children in my church as we learn God’s Word together. In the living room, I experience fellowship and encouragement. Once shared with Mike, that space is now shared with others in Bible study and community. In the closet, I meet God in personal worship as I read His Word, pray, reflect on a devotional, or listen to a favorite worship song. It is in these spaces that God has reminded me who He is—and in remembering Him, my hope is renewed.

Another lesson which has produced hope in grieving is understanding that joy and sorrow can exist side by—even intermingle. One of my favorite books on grieving is Therefore I Have Hope by Cameron Cole. He writes: “In my worst, I found that joy came from two primary places: (1) intimacy with God and (2) seeing Christ’s redemption and healing in my life. . . . Because you can find joy in closeness with God, this means that you can experience it, regardless of your circumstance.”

It’s possible to carry sadness in your heart and still find joy in your day. These emotions do not cancel each other out; they deepen one another.

• I can rejoice in the birth of my grandchildren and still shed tears that they will never know their grandfather.
• I can delight in family vacations, creating precious memories, and still wish Mike could be there to enjoy them with us.
• I can sing and worship freely with my church family and still long for the days when I watched him serve communion.
• I can travel with loved ones to places I had waited years to see and still ache because he isn’t by my side.
• I can find joy in today’s purpose—and still miss him terribly.

How can both exist at once? Because, as Susan Hunt writes, “Joy is not the absence of pain and sorrow, it’s the presence and purpose of Christ in our sorrow and suffering.”

This is part of learning to sorrow and suffer with hope. It’s not pretending the suffering isn’t real—it’s knowing that He is with us in it. His presence breathes life even into our pain.

As the fifth anniversary of Mike’s death approached, I wrestled with how to commemorate it. For weeks I struggled in what I call “the kingdom of Me-dom,” trying to plan something meaningful yet feeling very sorry for myself. One night, the Holy Spirit gently nudged me:  gather the family in the memorial garden.

So, we did. My daughter and I went in person, and we FaceTimed my sons and their families. We read the scripture passages from Mike’s funeral, played the songs we had sung that day, laughed at stories, and remembered all the ways his life had shaped ours. We read a liturgy from Every Moment Holy and prayed together.

It was a special time—a mingling of tears and laughter, sorrow and joy, joy and sorrow. It was worship. And it brought hope into my heart.

A Prayer of Hope and Joy:

Father, thank You for redeeming all things, including our sorrow. Thank You for not leaving us to grieve alone. Teach us to find joy in You, even when our hearts ache. Remind us daily that Your steadfast love is enough and that You are redeeming our sorrow even now. Help us cling to the hope You give—the hope that joy is possible, even in suffering. Amen.