“Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” – Psalm 30:5
A few weeks ago, the water took Xavier - the son of dear friends.
Eighteen years old.
Beloved son, brother, friend.
Friend to my own kids and to us.
And now—we are left carrying what cannot be carried, this grief that feels bottomless.
There are no words. Just a hush that settles deep in the soul.
The kind that doesn’t lift. The kind that makes you ache and listen all at once.
At his funeral, over 1,700 came—hearts gathered in pews.
Stories were told—real, raw, radiant. Stories that made much of Jesus and magnified the power of His Word in Xavier’s life.
You can [watch the funeral HERE]—and I urge you to do so.
Let Deacon Peter Randolph’s homily speak to your heart.
Let Xavier’s father’s final words restore hope.
I can’t do justice to what was spoken. I can only say this:
The grief still hangs heavy.
And somehow, even that weight is holy.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”(Matthew 5:4)
Last week, I lay face-down in the surgeon’s office.
A sterile room. The smell of antiseptic and the sting of every poke and cut.
They removed the melanoma. Clean margins. Praise God.
But still—I felt it. (the numbing didn't take...)
I felt it in the body. And felt everything else in the soul.
Because as the scalpel moved and the needle pulled in and out, my mind wandered over the past two years. Pain. Loss. Suffering. It all tumbled through.
But so did this:
Like rainstorms that eventually give way to sunlight
breaking through thick, humid clouds—
our stories are lined with moments of joy that shimmer through pain.
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” (Revelation 21:4)
God didn’t write sickness into Eden.
He didn’t intend for us to ache like this.
But we chose the wound.
And He—He chose to come down and heal it with His own pierced hands.
He stays. In it. With us.
He never looks away.
Cecilia’s next bone scan and CT is on August 11.
But for now,
The ordinary has returned like grace on the wind.
I’m home for bedtimes.
Morning snuggles.
Park days.
Daily Mass restores me.
It is not taken for granted—this quiet normal.
The world spins wild, but in here, there’s a rhythm again.
We pack for Pine Hills Girls Camp.
And then comes the shift—college move-ins.
Cecilia leaves in the early hours of August 16.
Mary on the 21st.
Sam, somewhere in between.
The letting go begins again. But these children were never mine to begin with. And may their lives - even in the ordinary - bring glory to the One to Whom they truly belong.
And still, I whisper the same old prayer:
Help me cherish the moments.
Even when I miss them in real time.
Even when they pass before I know how to hold them.
Because God is here, too.
In the hard. In the holy.
In the letting go and in the holding on.
“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”(1 Thessalonians 5:18)
Today is the Feast of Sts. Mary, Martha, and Lazarus.
I’ve fought this chronic anemia for decades—tried to power through.
But I’m tired of powering through.
My body needs strength.
And my children need a mom who isn’t measuring her worth by what’s left in her tank.
There’s so much life.
And I want to live it.
Really live it.
Thank you for loving our family.
For your prayers. Your presence. Your faithfulness.
We feel it all.
And please know—we are praying for you, too.
