Mothers Crying Out

08/08/2026

To the mothers who have lost a child… ❤️
There is a part of grief that I don't think anyone can prepare you for.
It's the fear that someday you might forget.
Not forget that you had a child.
Not forget that you loved them.
But forget the little things.
His smile.
His laugh.
The sound of his voice.
The little things that made him him.
And lately, I've found myself struggling with this.
I remember my son's smile.
I remember the way he would lay his head in my lap, and I would run my fingers through his hair to comfort him.
Those moments are so precious to me.
He was my son, and I was his mama.
I was his safe place.
And sometimes I'm afraid that one day I won't be able to picture those moments as clearly.
And that thought breaks my heart all over again.
Because when you lose a child, you don't just grieve the child you lost.
You grieve the future you thought you would have with them.
The conversations.
The hugs.
The birthdays.
The holidays.
The phone calls.
The ordinary moments you never realized would become the moments you would treasure most.
And then something happens as time goes on.
You start having moments where you don't think about them.
You laugh.
You smile.
You have a good day.
You go about your normal routine.
And suddenly you realize…
"I haven't thought about my child today."
And guilt can hit like a wave.
"How could I not be thinking about him?"
"Am I forgetting him?"
"How can I laugh when my son is gone?"
But I'm learning something.
Not thinking about him every moment doesn't mean I'm forgetting him.
Laughing doesn't mean I love him less.
Having a good day doesn't mean I'm moving on from him.
Living doesn't mean I'm leaving him behind.
The Bible tells us:
"The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." — Psalm 34:18
That means even in the moments when I feel like no one can understand this pain, God is near.
He sees the tears no one else sees.
He knows the memories I am afraid of losing.
He knows the love a mother carries for her child.
And Scripture also reminds us:
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." — Psalm 147:3
Healing doesn't mean forgetting.
Healing doesn't mean the loss didn't matter.
Healing means God meets us in the broken places and gently teaches us how to keep living while carrying the love.
Sometimes I think we become afraid to stop hurting because the pain feels like proof.
Proof that we remember.
Proof that we love.
Proof that our child mattered.
But our children don't need us to remain broken to prove that they mattered.
They mattered because they lived.
They mattered because they were loved.
They mattered because they were ours.
And their memory doesn't disappear because we begin to breathe again.
"A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance." — Ecclesiastes 3:4
There is room in grief for both.
There is room to cry and there is room to laugh.
There is room to miss them desperately and there is room to experience joy.
There is room to remember them and there are moments when our minds need rest.
So I'm going to keep telling my son's story.
I'm going to say his name.
I'm going to write down the little things.
I'm going to hold onto his smile.
I'm going to remember the way he laid his head in my lap while I ran my fingers through his hair.
And when a memory feels far away, I'm going to remind myself:
The memory may become harder to reach, but the love hasn't gone anywhere.
To the mama who is afraid she's forgetting…
You aren't.
You are learning how to carry something you never should have had to carry.
You are learning how to live in a world that changed forever.
And you don't have to stay in constant pain to prove that you will always love your child.
You can laugh.
You can live.
You can have joy.
You can have moments where you don't cry.
And then you can miss them so deeply that it takes your breath away.
All of it can exist together.
Because grief isn't forgetting.
Grief is learning how to carry love after loss.
And I will carry my son for the rest of my life.
His smile.
His memories.
His story.
His love.
And most of all…
I will carry the privilege of being his mama.
That is something death can never take away.
And when I don't have the strength to carry it, I will lean on the One who does.
"Cast your burden on the LORD, and He will sustain you." — Psalm 55:22
So today, Lord, I'm giving You the fear of forgetting.
Help me trust that I don't have to hold every memory perfectly to hold my son in my heart.
Help me remember with gratitude instead of fear.
Help me live without guilt.
Help me grieve without losing hope.
And when the memories feel distant, remind me that You have never forgotten him—and You have never forgotten me.
❤️ For every grieving mama: You are not forgetting. You are still loving. And God is still holding you.

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09/11/2025

This weekend Amelia and I had the blessing of some sweet girl time together. We sat under the teaching of the wonderful Melissa Spoelstra and spent time in the Word.

Our hearts were reminded of the power and beauty of God — The Great I AM.
Unlike us, whose “I am” changes with every season, His never does. He is constant, faithful, and always enough.

What a gift to pause, to learn, and to be filled up with truth alongside my granddaughter. 💜

"God said to Moses, 'I AM WHO I AM.' And He said, 'Say this to the people of Israel: I AM has sent me to you.'" – Exodus 3:14

The Power of “I AM”

When we speak, we often use the words “I am” to describe ourselves. I am tired. I am worried. I am a mother. I am hurting. These statements reveal something true: that we are always defined by what we’re going through, by the roles we carry, or by the feelings that weigh on us. And if we’re honest, our “I am” changes every day.

But when God revealed Himself to Moses in Exodus 3:14, He said:
“I AM WHO I AM.”
That was it. No add-on. No description needed. God was saying: “I am complete in Myself. Eternal. Unchanging. Dependent on no one, but everything depends on Me.”

What a contrast to us!

Our “I am” shows our need.

God’s “I AM” shows His sufficiency.

This is why it’s so powerful that Jesus used the same words — “I AM” — to describe Himself:

“I am the bread of life.” (John 6:35) → He feeds our souls.

“I am the light of the world.” (John 8:12) → He guides us out of darkness.

“I am the good shepherd.” (John 10:11) → He protects and cares for us.

“I am the resurrection and the life.” (John 11:25) → He conquers death and brings hope.

As mothers who cry out for our children, we carry many “I am” statements: I am weary. I am broken. I am anxious. I am grieving. But here’s the good news: when we bring our small, fragile “I am” to the eternal “I AM,” He meets us with everything we lack.

💜 I am weak → He is strong.
💜 I am hurting → He is my comfort.
💜 I am lost → He is my way.

Reflection:
What “I am” statement have you been carrying this week? Lay it down before the Lord and let His “I AM” fill in the gaps.

08/20/2025

I was reminded yesterday.....even though Nick’s battle is over and he now stands in victory with Jesus, there are still so many moms still in the fight for their children. 💔

Mama, I know you’re tired. Some days it feels like you can’t take another step. You’re in the trenches, crying out for strength, for answers, for hope. Please—don’t give up. God is still moving, even when you can’t see it.

And don’t forget this: you matter too. Take care of yourself. Rest when you can. Let others come alongside you, because you were never meant to carry this weight alone.

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” – Galatians 6:2

You are not alone.

08/18/2025

Grieving Differently: Husbands and Wives

In our couples Bible study, we spent time in Job and the response of his wife. Many point out how harsh her words were: “Curse God and die.” But when we pause to remember, this was a woman who had just lost all ten of her children in a single day. Her response was grief speaking.

That got me thinking about how grief looks so different between husbands and wives. When Nick passed, my grief came out in tears. I cried often and openly. Rob’s grief looked nothing like mine. Within a week, he was back at work, and I never saw him cry. Quietly, I wondered, Does this even affect him the way it affects me? Over time, I learned that men often grieve differently. They may hold it in, or pour their pain into work or responsibility, while we as mothers may express it more outwardly.

In our Bible study, someone brought up the example of David. After the loss of his child, David got up, washed, changed his clothes, and ate. That didn’t mean his grief wasn’t real—it meant he walked through it in a way that looked different than what we might expect.

This leaves us with something important to reflect on: husbands and wives do not always grieve in the same way. One may cry, one may grow quiet. One may return to routine quickly, while the other can hardly get out of bed. Both are valid. Both are grief.

As mothers and wives, it helps to remember: grief wears a different face for each of us. And just as Job’s wife cried out and David responded in action, so too do our marriages hold two different ways of carrying the same deep loss.

And last, I want to say thank you to my husband, Rob. Though his grief looked different than mine, he stood strong during the most difficult time of my life. I know now that his strength was part of how he carried his love for Nick and for me.

I love you Rob and there are no words to express how grateful I am to have you as my husband.

Love Sandi

08/17/2025

What I Do to Celebrate Nick’s Birthdays in Heaven

When Nick’s birthday comes around each year, my heart feels both the ache of his absence and the joy of remembering the gift of his life. Even though he’s no longer here to blow out candles or open gifts, I still celebrate him.

I spend time with the Lord, thanking Him for blessing me with Nick as my son. I sit in reflection and prayer, sometimes listening to the songs Nick loved or reading scripture that reminds me of God’s promises of eternal life.

I do little things that keep his memory alive—like making his favorite meal, lighting a candle, or writing him a letter. Some years, I share stories about him with those who loved him too, so we can laugh and cry together.

And because Nick once said that the way to begin healing is to “cry out to the Lord,” I use his birthday as a reminder to encourage others walking through loss or addiction to do just that—to cry out. It’s my way of honoring his words and his heart.

Though the celebration looks different now, I hold onto the hope of heaven, where birthdays will never end, and where one day I’ll celebrate with Nick.

Love you forever, love you always forever and always my baby you will be

07/15/2025

07/15/2025

Mowing, Memories, and the Weight of Grief

Yesterday, I spent my day mowing. The mower is lousy—clunky, noisy, and slow—but somehow it’s become sacred ground for me. It’s the place where I think most clearly and talk most honestly with God. Maybe it’s because Nick loved mowing. Maybe it’s because in the hum and rhythm of it all, the world slows down just enough for my heart to speak.

As I made pass after pass through the yard, my mind drifted—first to Nick, as it always does, and then to the moms in Texas who just lost their babies in the floods. I can’t imagine the chaos of their pain right now. And then I thought of so many of you, mothers walking through the first year—or the first few—of this grief journey. I remember those early days all too well. The weight was unbearable. The silence was deafening. I would wake up and immediately feel like I was suffocating under the reality that Nick was gone.

I remember thinking, There’s no way I’m going to survive this.
How does a mother live without her child?
How do I keep breathing when the person I love most is no longer breathing at all?

Those early years were filled with fog, guilt, anger, and an aching that had no words. But as I rode that mower yesterday, I realized something—I did survive. Not because I’m strong, but because I kept showing up. I cried out to God over and over. Some days with words. Other days with nothing but tears.

So if you're in those first steps of grief right now, I want you to know something: You're not crazy. You're not weak. And you're not alone. This pain feels impossible because it's real. But there will come a day—maybe not soon, but someday—when you will breathe a little easier. And on that day, you’ll realize you’ve made it further than you ever thought you could. I know because that's how I feel today.

Until then, cry out. God hears. He really does.
I know, because He heard me.
And He heard Nick.

Today it was like I could see Nick smile and hear him say look I knew you could do it. Just keep staying in your lane Mom you got this.

Love Forever
Forever and always my baby you will be