There are moments when grief returns—not softly, but as a wave that crashes through time. It happened again recently, when my daughter sent me a picture. They were changing the nursery. Two years after we said goodbye to our granddaughter Flynn, that sacred room—once full of hope, dreams, and tiny clothes—was being transformed.

It hurt my soul.

Not because I wasn’t proud of their strength, but because the very act of change reopened the wound. That room had held a promise. And the picture was a quiet, aching reminder of what was lost: a perfect, beautiful baby girl who never took her first breath.

Flynn was stillborn at the very end of labor. The silence in that delivery room reverberated through every corner of our lives.

I remember the call clearly. We were at a church in Georgia, joyfully awaiting baby updates, expecting to wake up to newborn photos. Instead, I answered a phone that delivered devastation. “She didn’t make it.” In that moment, my world stood still. I had to repeat those words to my other children, to my granddaughter. Every call tore a fresh hole in my heart.

As a grandparent, I grieved Flynn—but I also grieved for my child, my son, and his wife, who were now carrying a weight that no parent should ever bear. It’s a layered grief. The ache in your own chest, the helplessness as you watch your child walk through unimaginable sorrow. And the pain—it’s not just emotional. It’s physical. Crushing. It takes your breath away.

We spent that Sunday morning surrounded by church family. They held us, prayed with us, stood in the gap when we couldn’t find the words. I’ve learned since then that grief is not a moment—it’s a journey. And it comes with silence. Not just ours, but God’s too.

I’ve known the voice of the Lord intimately in my life. I’ve taught Bible studies, spoken at conferences, led others through valleys. But this valley? This silence? It was deeper than anything I had ever known. I couldn’t pray. I couldn’t worship. I couldn’t even whisper gratitude.

And yet—even then—God was near.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

Even when I couldn’t feel Him, I clung to that truth.
Even when all I had was a mustard seed of faith, it was enough.

One year after Flynn’s passing, I wrote:

“Most people see the smile but never glimpse the brokenness it hides. Walking this path of loss, heartbreak, and devastation, our only hope has been clinging to who God is, what He’s promised, and His presence through the agony.”

And now, two years later, that still holds true. The grief still comes—unexpected, fierce. But alongside it is hope. Quiet, resilient hope. Because I believe we will see Flynn again. I believe she is alive in the presence of Jesus. And I believe that somehow, even in this pain, God is working.

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain…” — Revelation 21:4

Until that day, I continue to sing the only song I can, one that Brandon Lake gave voice to when my own words fell short:

“All my words fall short, I got nothin’ new…
So, I throw up my hands and praise You again and again.
‘Cause all that I have is a hallelujah.”

To anyone reading who has walked this path or is walking it still—please know you are not alone. Your grief is sacred. Your tears are seen. And even when the pain feels impossible, God remains.

He is not absent. He is not done. He is still writing your story.

And one day, our hallelujahs will be met with wholeness.