Every year, we sing.

Another loss, another love.

“My son, my son…”

Lamenting with our brothers and sisters.

Parental love does not rely on reciprocation.

What it can look like to weep with those who weep.

A widowed wife, a bereaved son, and a grieving father.

Death stings us now, but not forever.

The value in not rushing past grief.

Eli’s favorite stance became the posture of our family.

The song we need to sing during a pandemic.

Joy, hope, and wrestling.

I will not grasp some meaning in my son’s passing.

Our pain and God’s promises.

Drowning out sorrow dilutes hope.

We know where we will be buried.

The Scriptures give room for heartache during the holidays.

It doesn’t have to be one or the other.

Comparing our songs with the Scriptures.

We never stop honoring our son.

The posture of compassion.

This invitation has been my affliction.

It’s as if our house has been groaning with us.

We need to make space for sorrow.

Our worship is typically incomplete.

Grief evolves in subtle and arbitrary ways.

A fierce and staggering display of motherhood.

We need stories penned during the storm, not just after.

Waiting for glory with tears in our eyes.

A complicated question to ask and answer.

Grasping for the past.

A beautiful poem of grief and love.

Death enrages us and our King.

Traumatic silence from above.

Grief doesn’t sleep, so neither do you.

Death hurts now, but not forever.

Jesus knows what it’s like.

Even in pain, children are a gift.

Trials will come, but triumph is certain.

Waiting for the Lord to restore.

“Every lament is a love song.”

Singing songs that are honest and biblical.

Suffering can reduce your prayers down to one word.

“Are you the ones who lost a child?”

The Bible permits our bold groaning.