Out of a passenger ship sinking came a beautiful worship song by a dad who lost his family on that fateful day.

Horatio Gates Spafford - The story behind the hymn "It is well with my soul" THE STORY OF THE “IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL”

Horatio Gates Spafford was born in New York, on 20th October 1828, but it was in Chicago that he became well-known for his clear Christian testimony. He and his wife Anna were active in their church, and their home was always open to visitors. They counted the world-famous evangelist, Dwight L. Moody, among their friends. They were blest with five children and considerable wealth. Horatio was a lawyer and owned a great deal of property in his home city.

Not unlike Job in the Old Testament of the Bible, tragedy came in great measure to this happy home. When four years old, their son, Horatio Jnr, died suddenly of scarlet fever. Then only a year later, in October 1871, a massive fire swept through downtown Chicago, devastating the city, including many properties owned by Horatio. That day, almost 300 people lost their lives, and around 100,000 were made homeless. Despite their own substantial financial loss, the Spaffords sought to demonstrate the love of Christ, by assisting those who were grief-stricken and in great need.

Two years later, in 1873, Spafford decided his family should take a holiday in England, knowing that his friend, the evangelist D. L. Moody, would be preaching there in the autumn. Horatio was delayed because of business, so he sent his family ahead: his wife and their four remaining children, all daughters, 11 year old Anna, 9 year old Margaret Lee, 5 year old Elizabeth, and 2 year old Tanetta.

ANOTHER TRAGEDY On 22nd November 1873, while crossing the Atlantic on the steamship, Ville du Havre, their vessel was struck by an iron sailing ship. Two hundred and twenty-six people lost their lives, as the Ville du Havre sank within only twelve minutes.

All four of Horatio Spafford’s daughters perished, but remarkably Anna Spafford survived the tragedy. Those rescued, including Anna, who was found unconscious, floating on a plank of wood, subsequently arrived in Cardiff, South Wales. Upon arrival there, Anna immediately sent a telegram to her husband, which included the words “Saved alone….”

Receiving Anna’s message, he set off at once to be reunited with his wife. One particular day, during the voyage, the captain summoned him to the bridge of the vessel. Pointing to his charts, he explained that they were then passing over the very spot where the Ville du Havre had sunk, and where his daughters had died. It is said that Spafford returned to his cabin and wrote the hymn “It is well with my soul” there and then, the first line of which is, “When peace like a river, attendeth my way..”

There are other accounts that say that it was written at a later date, but obviously, the voyage was one of deep suffering and is the clear inspiration of the moving and well-loved hymn. Horatio’s faith in God never faltered. He later wrote to Anna’s half-sister, “On Thursday last, we passed over the spot where she went down, in mid-ocean, the waters three miles deep. But I do not think of our dear ones there. They are safe….. dear lambs”.

After Anna was rescued, Pastor Nathaniel Weiss, one of the ministers traveling with the surviving group, remembered hearing Anna say, “God gave me four daughters. Now they have been taken from me. Someday I will understand why.”

Naturally, Anna was utterly devastated, but she testified that in her grief and despair, she had been conscious of a soft voice speaking to her, “You were saved for a purpose!” She remembered something a friend had once said, “It’s easy to be grateful and good when you have so much, but take care that you are not a fair-weather friend to God.”

Following this deep tragedy, Anna gave birth to three more children, but she and Horatio were not spared even more sadness, as on February 11th, 1880, their only son, Horatio (named after the brother who had died, and also after his father), he also died at the age of four.

FURTHER SERVICE In August 1881 the Spaffords left America with a number of other like-minded Christians and settled in Jerusalem. There they served the needy, helped the poor, and cared for the sick, and took in homeless children. Their desire was to show those living about them, the love of Jesus.

The original manuscript of Spafford’s hymn has only four verses, but later another verse was added. The music, which was written by Philip Bliss, was named after the ship on which Horatio and Anna’s daughters had died – Ville du Havre.

How great is our God~the story of Laminin , the molecular structure that shaped like the cross of Christ that holds our bodies together

It says in the word that we are uniquily and wonderfully made. When he made us our bodies were made of a molecular structure with the shape of the cross of Christ.How cool is that?

We must give our kids permission to cry after we lose someone very dear to us

Once upon a time, in a small town nestled among rolling hills, lived a young girl named Evelyn. She was just eight years old when her world shattered. Her beloved father, a firefighter, lost his life while saving others from a raging inferno. The flames consumed not only the building but also a piece of Evelyn’s heart.

The funeral was a blur of tear-streaked faces, somber hymns, and the scent of lilies. Evelyn clung to her mother’s hand, her small fingers trembling. But amidst the grief-stricken crowd, she felt lost.

Her father’s absence echoed in every corner of their home—the empty chair at the dinner table, the unworn coat hanging by the door, and the silence that enveloped their once lively living room. Evelyn yearned for stories, memories, anything to keep her father alive in her heart. But the house remained silent, and the photo frames collected dust.

Days turned into weeks, and Evelyn’s grief festered. She watched her classmates laugh, play, and share stories about their families. But she had no stories left to tell. Her father’s voice faded from her memory, replaced by an ache that settled deep within her chest.

She wondered if she was allowed to grieve, or if her mother’s silence meant she should forget.

In school, Evelyn’s grades plummeted. She couldn’t concentrate on math problems or history lessons. Instead, she doodled fire trucks and imagined her father riding one, his smile wide and proud.

The other children whispered behind her back, wondering why she was different. They didn’t understand that grief had wrapped its icy fingers around her heart, freezing her emotions.

One day, during recess, Evelyn sat alone on the swing. The wind tugged at her hair, and tears blurred her vision. A girl named Lily approached, her eyes filled with curiosity. “Why don’t you play with us?” Lily asked.

Evelyn hesitated. “I don’t know how.” Lily tilted her head. “How can you not know? Everyone plays.”

Evelyn’s voice trembled. “My dad died. I miss him.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She sat beside Evelyn. “My grandma died last year. It hurt a lot.”

Evelyn blinked. “Did you cry?” Lily nodded. “Yeah. But my mom said it’s okay to cry. It helps.”

Evelyn thought about her mother, who never shed a tear. She wondered if her grief was wrong somehow. “What if you can’t cry?”

Lily shrugged. “Maybe you need someone to help you.” And so, Evelyn and Lily became unlikely friends. Lily listened as Evelyn whispered stories about her father—the way he laughed, the bedtime tales he spun, and the warmth of his hugs.

Lily encouraged her to draw pictures, to write letters to her dad, and to visit his grave.

Slowly, Evelyn began to thaw. One rainy afternoon, Evelyn stood before her father’s tombstone. The raindrops mingled with her tears. “I miss you,” she whispered. “I wish you were here.”

And then, for the first time since the funeral, Evelyn felt a release. Her grief poured out, cleansing her soul.

She realized that grieving wasn’t a sign of weakness; it was a tribute to love. Margaret watched from a distance, her own tears hidden behind dark sunglasses. She saw her daughter finally grieve, and in that moment, she understood.

Evelyn needed permission—to cry, to remember, and to heal.

From then on, Margaret and Evelyn visited the cemetery together. They shared stories, laughter, and tears. And as the seasons changed, so did their hearts.

Evelyn learned that grief wasn’t a burden to bear alone—it was a bridge connecting her to her father’s memory.

And so, in that small town, amidst rolling hills and rain-kissed tombstones, Evelyn discovered that healing began with tears, and love endured even after loss.

🌿🌸 I crafted this story to explore the impact of traumatic losses on children who struggle to grieve. The characters and their journey represent the complexities of grief and the importance of allowing oneself to mourn.

In this story we discover the impact that losing a classmate has on them

Title: “Fading Sunflowers”

The sunflowers in Mrs. Thompson’s classroom wilted the day Emily died. Their vibrant yellow petals, once reaching for the sun, now drooped like heavy hearts. The fourth-grade class at Maplewood Elementary School was forever changed.

Emily was the quiet girl who sat in the corner, her eyes always downcast. She wore oversized sweaters that swallowed her thin frame, and her brown hair hung in a tangled curtain around her face. But beneath her shy exterior, there was a depth—an unspoken sadness that drew the other kids to her.

The news spread like wildfire. Emily had undergone hip surgery to correct a congenital issue. The procedure was supposed to be routine, but something went terribly wrong. The pain became unbearable, and the doctors prescribed opioids. Emily’s parents trusted the medical professionals—they had no reason not to.

But the pills took hold of their daughter, pulling her into a dark abyss.

In the days following Emily’s death, the classroom felt emptier. Her desk remained untouched, a silent reminder of her absence. The other students whispered about her—how she had been there one day, and the next, she was gone.

They didn’t understand the gravity of it all, but they sensed the heaviness in the air.

Liam, the class clown, stopped telling jokes. His laughter turned hollow, and he stared out the window during recess, lost in thoughts he couldn’t articulate. He wondered why Emily had to suffer, why the world could be so cruel.

Sophie, the bookworm, buried herself in novels. She read about magical lands and brave heroes, hoping to escape the reality that now haunted her dreams.

She wondered if Emily’s pain had been as sharp as the paper cuts she got from turning pages too quickly.

Ethan, the soccer star, kicked the ball harder during gym class. His anger spilled onto the field, and he scored goal after goal, as if each one could erase the ache in his chest. He wished he could kick away the pain for Emily too.

And then there was Ava, Emily’s closest friend. Ava had shared secrets with her during lunchtime—about crushes, fears, and dreams. Now, she sat alone at the lunch table, staring at the empty seat across from her.

The cafeteria buzzed with chatter, but Ava heard only silence. Mrs. Thompson tried to maintain normalcy. She taught math and science, wiped the chalkboard, and smiled at her students.

But her eyes held a sadness that no lesson plan could erase.

She wondered if she could have done more for Emily, if she should have noticed the signs.

The school held an assembly to talk about opioids and their dangers. Parents hugged their children a little tighter that evening, promising to protect them from anything that could harm.

But the damage was done—the sunflowers in Mrs. Thompson’s classroom would never bloom the same way again.

As the weeks turned into months, the classmates found solace in each other. They formed an unspoken pact—a promise to remember Emily, to fight against the darkness that had taken her.

They planted new sunflower seeds, hoping they would grow tall and strong, a testament to resilience. In the end, Emily’s legacy wasn’t just a wilted flower or an empty desk. It was the compassion that bloomed within her classmates—their determination to turn tragedy into hope.

And as the sunflowers swayed in the breeze, they whispered secrets of resilience, reminding everyone that even in loss, life could find a way to grow.

The connection between loss and physical and mental ailments.

We must never underestimate the impact that grief has on the human body.

Grief’s Silent Symphony

In the quiet chambers of the heart, grief weaves its intricate tapestry. It is a symphony of sorrow, a composition that resonates through every cell, sinew, and bone.

Let me tell you the tale of how grief affects the human body—a story of shadows and echoes. The lungs, those delicate bellows, struggle to find rhythm. Each breath carries the echo of a name unspoken.

Oxygen becomes scarce, and the body gasps for solace. Tears flow, washing away the salt of grief, leaving behind a residue of ache.

Act II: The Anatomy of Longing Grief infiltrates the nervous system, rewiring its pathways. Neurons fire erratically, sparking memories like distant constellations. The brain, once a symphony of joy and curiosity, now hums a mournful tune. It searches for answers in the dark corridors of loss.

The skin, our largest organ, tightens. It craves touch—the warmth of a hand, the brush of lips—but finds only emptiness. Nerve endings ache, yearning for connection. Sleep becomes elusive; dreams are haunted by fragmented conversations with the departed.

Act III: The Melancholy Melodies Deep within the marrow, grief composes its most intricate passages. Bone cells remember. They ache, not from physical strain, but from the weight of memory. The spine curves, burdened by the stories left untold. Vertebrae whisper secrets to one another, seeking solace.

The stomach, that pit of emotions, churns. It digests sorrow, turning it into knots of longing. Appetite wanes, and food loses its flavor. The body mourns not only the departed but also the taste of shared meals, the laughter around a table.

Finale: The Healing Overture And yet, amidst this symphony of sorrow, there lies resilience. The body, like a seasoned musician, adapts. It learns to carry grief as a companion, not an adversary. Muscles stretch, allowing space for both ache and hope. The heart, scarred but still beating, finds new rhythms.

Slowly, the symphony transforms. Grief becomes a bittersweet melody, a tribute to what was lost. It no longer paralyzes; instead, it propels. The body, once fractured, knits itself together with threads of acceptance.

And so, the curtain falls on our tale. Grief, the silent conductor, bows to the resilience of the human body. It fades into memory, leaving behind a symphony—a testament to love, loss, and the indomitable spirit that carries us forward. Note: This story is a work of fiction, inspired by the universal experience of grief.

How to survive the first 6 months after the loss of a child

In the quiet hours of dawn, when the world was still wrapped in a silvery haze, a young mother named Eliza cradled her newborn daughter in her arms. The room smelled of antiseptic and hope—a place where life and death danced on the edge of a fragile precipice.

The child, swaddled in soft blankets, had her father’s eyes—deep pools of curiosity and wonder. Eliza traced the delicate curve of her daughter’s cheek, marveling at the miracle of existence. She had dreamed of this moment for months, imagined the laughter, the sleepless nights, the first steps. But life has a way of weaving its own tapestry, and sometimes the threads fray and unravel.

The doctor had been solemn when he delivered the news. A rare congenital heart defect, he said. A fragile vessel that couldn’t withstand the demands of life outside the womb. Eliza’s heart shattered as she listened, her dreams slipping through her fingers like sand.

Days turned into weeks, and the hospital room became their cocoon. Eliza and her husband, James, took turns holding their daughter, whispering lullabies and promises. They named her Lily—a name that held both fragility and resilience.

Lily’s tiny chest rose and fell, her breaths like fragile butterflies. The nurses came and went, their footsteps hushed, their eyes filled with compassion. Eliza watched the monitors, willing the numbers to stabilize, to defy the odds. But the universe had other plans.

One night, as the moon painted silver streaks across the floor, Lily’s breathing grew labored. Eliza clung to her daughter, tears blurring her vision. James held her hand, his knuckles white with fear. They whispered love into the darkness, their voices a lifeline.

And then, in the quietest of moments, Lily slipped away. Her heart fluttered like a wounded bird, then stilled. Eliza’s grief was a tempest—a howling wind that threatened to tear her apart. She cradled her daughter’s lifeless form, her tears soaking the blankets.

In the days that followed, Eliza wandered through a fog. The world outside the hospital seemed distant and irrelevant. Friends and family offered condolences, but their words bounced off her like raindrops on a windowpane. She clung to Lily’s memory—the weight of her in her arms, the warmth of her breath against her skin.

James, too, grieved in his own way. He planted a tree in their backyard—a cherry blossom, delicate and fleeting. Its petals would bloom each spring, a reminder of their daughter’s brief existence. Eliza watched him dig the earth, his hands raw and determined. Together, they watered the tree, whispered secrets to its roots.

Life moved forward, as it always does. Eliza returned to work, her heart a scarred landscape. She saw other mothers with their healthy babies, their laughter like shards of glass. She wondered if Lily watched over them, a silent guardian from the other side.

And sometimes, in the quiet hours of dawn, Eliza would sit beneath the cherry blossom tree. Its petals would fall around her, like snowflakes caught in a gentle breeze. She would close her eyes and imagine Lily’s laughter, her tiny fingers reaching for the sky.

In the language of loss, Eliza learned to find beauty in the broken places. Lily’s memory became a fragile treasure—a star that still shone, even in the darkest nights. And as the seasons changed, so did Eliza. She carried her daughter’s spirit within her, a beacon of love that transcended time and space.

And so, beneath the cherry blossom tree, Eliza whispered her daughter’s name to the wind. Lily—the fragile heart that had touched their lives so briefly, yet left an indelible mark.

So, what does it mean to grieve for a child? Some thoughts.

Whispers of Remembrance

The air hung heavy with grief, as if the very fabric of the world had torn. The small room, once filled with laughter and the pitter-patter of little feet, now echoed with emptiness. The family sat together, their hearts stitched together by sorrow.

Evelyn, the mother, clutched a faded teddy bear to her chest. Its fur had lost its luster, just like her eyes. She traced the stitches on its paw, remembering how her son, Oliver, used to cuddle it during thunderstorms. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within her soul.

David, the father, sat by the window, staring at raindrops racing down the glass. His hands trembled as he clung to a crumpled drawing—a stick-figure family, complete with a little boy holding hands with his parents. Oliver’s masterpiece. The ink had blurred from tears.

Their friends, Anna and Michael, stood by their side. Anna, with her gentle touch, whispered, “We’re here for you.” Michael, the strong oak, held David’s shoulder, wordlessly sharing the weight of grief.

Days turned into weeks, and the house became a museum of memories. Oliver’s room remained untouched—the dinosaur posters, the half-finished puzzle, the soccer ball gathering dust.

Evelyn would tiptoe in, inhaling the scent of her son, hoping to find solace in the remnants of his existence. The neighbors brought casseroles and condolences. They hugged the family, their eyes filled with pity. But it was Anna who sat with Evelyn, sipping tea, and listened to her broken heart. Anna didn’t offer solutions; she simply held space for the pain.

Michael took David fishing. They sat by the lake, lines cast into the water, and talked about everything except loss. Sometimes, silence was the best balm. Michael knew that.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Anna suggested a ritual. They gathered in the backyard, each holding a paper lantern. The flames flickered, illuminating their tear-streaked faces. They whispered messages to Oliver, their words carried by the wind. Evelyn’s lantern bore the words, “You are loved, my sweet boy.” David’s read, “We’ll keep your memory alive.” Anna’s lantern danced with, “Fly high, little star.” And Michael’s, “We’re here, always.”

As the lanterns floated into the night, the family felt a strange mix of sorrow and release. Oliver’s spirit seemed to ride the currents, soaring beyond the clouds. Months passed, and the raw edges of grief softened. Anna and Michael continued to visit, not with answers, but with presence. They planted flowers in Oliver’s memory, tended to the garden, and shared stories of their own losses.

They knew that healing wasn’t linear, that sometimes it was a dance between laughter and tears. One day, Evelyn found a letter in the mailbox. It was from Oliver’s best friend, Lucas. He wrote about missing Oliver’s laughter, their secret hideout in the woods, and how he’d saved a seat for him at lunch. Evelyn cried, touched by Lucas’s words.

She invited Lucas over. The boy hesitated at the doorstep, clutching a soccer ball. “I thought we could play,” he said. And they did—kicking the ball, laughing, and remembering Oliver’s goofy goal celebrations.

The family learned that friends weren’t there to fix broken hearts. They were there to hold the pieces together, to create a mosaic of love and memories. And in that fragile beauty, they found hope.

Oliver’s light still flickered, guiding them through the darkness.

When will you know you’re recover from grief?

When you emerge from the depths of grief, it’s like finding a fragile bloom after a long, harsh winter.

The pain that once consumed you begins to recede, like the tide pulling away from the shore.

Here are some sensations that often accompany recovery from grief:

Lightness: The weight that pressed upon your chest starts to lift. It’s as if the leaden cloak of sorrow is gradually replaced by a gossamer shawl—a reminder of what was, but no longer suffocating.

Nostalgia: Memories of your loved one no longer pierce like shards of glass. Instead, they become tender, like old photographs yellowing at the edges. You can hold them without bleeding.

Resilience: You notice your own strength—the way your heart stitches itself back together, scar tissue forming over the raw wound. You become a testament to the human spirit’s capacity to heal.

Laughter: It arrives unexpectedly, like a shy visitor knocking on your door. You let it in, surprised by the sound of your own mirth. It doesn’t betray the love you still carry; rather, it honors it.

Acceptance: Grief no longer feels like a tempest raging within. Instead, it’s a gentle rain—an ache that nourishes the soil of your soul. You learn to dance in its rhythm. Hope: The horizon stretches out before you, and you glimpse the possibility of joy. It’s not a betrayal of your loss; it’s an affirmation that life continues, even after the darkest nights.

Remember, recovery from grief is not linear. It’s a winding path, sometimes obscured by mist, but it leads to a place where healing and remembering coexist.

Every once in a while there is a series that resonates with me and worth recommending so others can watch.

Going home is one such series as it is filled with stories of people who in the aftermath of their end of life diagnosis are processing pain they never shared with anyone in life.

In this episode, Randall is a former viet nam war veteran who was terribly traumatized by images seeing people die.One image he could not get out of his mind was the death of a boy in the deep jungles of Vietnam. "The mother of that boy would never again see her son", he lamented to the hospice nurse.

At one point, Randall was homeless. His grown daughter, Deb, brought her dad into her home where his nightly rituals of flashbacks got to the point where he would wake up and instantly throw things at the imaginary enemy.Deb could no longer care her dad that she bought him to a home to care for him.

Randall developed 4th stage cancer with no cure on the horizon and was brought to the Sunrise hospice program. It was in this program that the lead RN was able to win the trust and respect that enabled him to open up for the first time about the pain he never told anyone. It was as though the dam had broken, ushering decades of repressed tears into the open freeing his body of those toxins.

Although it is unhealthy, it is normal for people to want to bury their emotions deep down inside after the loss of a loved one. "I don't want to talk about " becomes the common reframe for most. For some who go decades avoiding the expression of their pain, drugs and alcohol become their 'friends'. For others, the repression of their emotional pain causes their bodies to develop various cancers and other health maladies. For Randall it was his 4th stage diagnosis that brought him to Sunset hospice.

When I think about grief share I see this as a safe community where people can come and share their story, some for the very first time. I've watched people shed a flood gate of tears when they share their pain, but with those tears, healing eventually comes. Each time they share, I notice it becomes a less daunting task for them to do so.

When Jesus came into the world, he came to die for each one of us, to whisper sweet encouraging things into us by way of the holy spirit. Like the nurse in Going home, we are to learn to listen to bereaved people, not to judge them, or give them silly platitudes.

Toward the end of this episode after Randall began talking about the death of this boy, he met his daughter for the first time. She asked him to come to her wedding. The staff of the hospice program got him dressed up in his Marine dress uniform he hadn't worn in decades and wheeled him to the gathering room where his daughter was marrying another Marine.

There is a verse in the bible that states that God makes all things new. In the 10 years I helped facilitate grief share God has shown me many ways how He makes all things new in the participants who come to griefshare.

If you only had money for one streaming service, I recommend the Great American Pureflix. As you watch the episodes of Going home, I know you will see the importance of openly expressing your emotions when life throws a curve ball and you lose a loved one.

In the event of such loss, I recommend you participate in a griefshare near you. It was in 2007 when I lost my 10 year old daughter that I began having flashbacks and nightmares that would cause me to awaken suddenly in the wee hours of the morning trying to second guess all of the decisions we made for her regarding her orthopeadic surgery. It wasn't until I started journaling and telling my story over again to trusted listeners that my flashbacks and nightmares diminished.

I urge you if you are battling issues like this from your sudden losses to cry out to God and express your pain to him. You will be glad you did.

The loss of a child is a long and often times painful process. It is a process that requires people to support them.

As this man testifies, the loss of a child is a profound and intense loss of which he was not able to do on his own. He shares the story of losing his 5 year old son and the cataclysism of emotions he traveled through until he felt normal again. He shared how therapists and close friends that helped him all along the way of his journey.

He was right when he shared how difficult it was to find honest videos done by men after the loss of a child. They are hard to find because men find it hard to talk about their emotions after a traumatic loss. Statistically, men are more apt to venture into alcohol and drug use before they show up at the doorstep of a therapist or groups like grief share.

In the 10 years that I have help facilitate Grief share I can attest to the fact that the groups are filled with mostly grieving woman with a small handful of men. The men who did come to grief share and completed all of their lessons recovered at a much faster pace than the ones who stayed away while their wives attended.

The reality after the loss of a child ( at any age) is that it will take at least 10 years to recover from such a loss and the reality if men choose to isolate while going from depression to anger back to depression is that they will likely display serious health symptoms requiring medical intervention. After the loss of my 10 year old daughter, Maria, I sought out a trauma therapist to help me with the intial shock and anger of the loss. Once this was completed, I joined my wife to participate in Grief share. The combination of these two things made all of the difference in my world.

We have a God who sent his son, Jesus, into the world to help us heal from our losses by walking along side us through the entire journey. He also uses groups like Griefshare.org to help with the healing process by introducing people to us who experience similar losses as ours in an evironment where we feel safe to share our emotional pain.

God is in business of healing broken people

The loss of a loved one can profoundly effect us in unique ways. For some, it can lead to shock as we grapple with the 'why did this have to happen to me?' We search for someone to blame for our loss, a loss that we never envision would happen to us.

If the loss is with a child, the loss is profound and deep which often takes up to 10 years before we start feeling normal again.

Then, you have the family dynamics following the loss. Some are instantly processing their pain while others are bitter and angry choosing to point fingers toward the primary care giver thinking they must have done something to cause the loved one to die.

When we lose a loved one we come to the proverbial fork in the road of life. Choosing the right path will either set the survivor on the recovery road while choosing the wrong path will lead them down a road filled with more anger and various addictions of which may cause dangerous health conditions to surface. I would like to say that most would choose the right path, but sadly, statistics remind me that most will make every effort to bury their grief while substituting alcohol, drugs, gambling and other addictions into the equation.

There is hope and that is Grief share. This is a 13 week group that teaches people how to grieve while encouraging them to have daily devotions using the 'From mourning to joy' exercises. When you read God's word from Genesis through Revelation the common theme you will find is 'Grief'. It is a reminder that life isn't always going to be a happy and delightful. It is a reminder that Jesus came into the world to walk with broken people and to guide them until recovery is reached. Griefshare is one such tool to help guide broken people.

Going home is a new series about stories of people who are dying and the survivors who carry on. Grief share is highlighted in several of the episodes.

Recovery from grief cannot be done alone for we all need a community of believers to go to the dark places we’re in

Grief has to be fully processed for however long it takes. There is no time line for recovery to occur. To recover from the loss of a child it can take as much as 10 years to heal.
A person may try to avoid grieving by over working, drinking or using intoxicating drugs, but those do not work in the longrun.

In fact, avoidance will only lead to the same level of pain as if the death occurred yesterday.

The reality we will all face in this lifetime is a death of someone close to us. The way to recover would be to find a support group like griefshare where you will be able to share your story and the pain of losing your loved one. To deny your grief will only cause physical and mental health problems. This could lead to a shorter life span. Men, especially, are prone to long term health problems for they are most likely to shut down their emotions and not allow them to go to the dark places they need to go.

According to Dr. Anet Varghese, Grief is the anguish experienced after significant loss, usually the death of a beloved person.

Grief often includes physiological distress, separation anxiety, confusion, yearning, obsessive dwelling on the past, and apprehension about the future. Intense grief can become life-threatening through disruption of the immune system, self-neglect, and suicidal thoughts. Grief may also take the form of regret for something lost, remorse for something done, or sorrow for a mishap to oneself.

Notice what she says about life-threatening through the disruption of the immune system. One of the first things we tell people after they experience a truamtic loss is for them to schedule an appointment with their doctor to let that person know that they just experienced the loss of a loved one.

By letting your doctor know, you're opening the door for him or her to moniter your health systems to prevent health complications from occuring that are associated with your grief.

It was at my initial appointmentthat he encouraged me to seek a therapist gifted at helping people with working with trauma. He understood as he shared the trauma when he was a teenager and watched his younger brother die.

The more you share your story, the more support you will find in your time of need-support you surely need. One other thing we did was to continue worshipping our Savior at the same church we attended when our now deceased loved one was with us. We did this because we knew that maintaining those same rituals was important to our well being and recovery process.

We need to be prepared to walk this grief journey for a long time. For the lost of a child it may take up to 10 years to recover from the pain associated with this loss.Most of us would rather that we hurt for a little while before we resume life's normal functions. Rmember, the pain you feelis the reflection of the love you had for the one who died. You loved deeply and of course you will grieve deeply so it will take a strong commitment to grieve each emotion one emotion at a time and not set time limits when this grief will end.

I assure you that your commitment to this grief work will lead to dividends of feeling like you can laugh again as you recall those memories of yesteryear.Trust the Lord and let Him walk with your through the pain.In this video below, you will meetan individual who successfully navigated her series of losses to the point where she is speaking to groups how they can recover like she did.

Ballroom dancing is teaching a man how to lead and the woman how to follow

Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

Ecclesiatas 4:13

Linda and I started ball room dancing through the New Hope dance ministry. We first started ball room dancing several years ago when Bruce Gunderson started this ministry with his wife to help couples reconnect after difficult times entered their marriage.

'To teach a man to lead and the woman to follow' were the words of that first night devotional As we reflected on that phrase we understood the signifigance it had in ball room dancing which required the man to take the lead and for woman to trust in her guy's leading.

why is so this so important you might ask? Because we're living in an age where woman's liberation is telling young woman that they do not need a man to lead them.

The reality is that this is a lie that is creating epidemic lonliness.

When God created man and woman he created them to love and cherish each other and to procreate.

In that sense, ball room dancing is a perfect example of teaching men and woman a life long skill that will improve their relationships as difficult times enter such as the sudden loss of a child. Life is filled with heartache butlike two stands bound together your marriage will remain strong.

If you live in the Minneapolis area I encourage you to try ball room dancing. My opinion is that you will not regret it

How did we get to the point where life isn’t valued. The slippery slope toward Euthanasia

I'm sadden by the most extreme laws passed since 2023 and the repercussions that followed.

Governor Tim Walz sat between his assistant Governor and the Planned parenthood president proudly exclaiming how proud he annournced a100% increase in Minnesota tax payer abortions coming from out of state. He was proud when parents were moving their children here so they could get puberty blockers and mutilation surgery to change their sex. The lie they were told by the trans cult was would you rather have a dead daughter or a living son- a lie that was told after months and years of being told they were born in the wrong body by the same group.

I've concluded that this democratic party hates woman and children!

This Minnesota democratic party isnt done yet. At the upcoming legislative session the progressives plan on introducing a Euthanasia bill that will allow people to die if they are terminally ill or suffer from chronic pain. All the person needs is a doctor to sign off on the euthanasia paperwork and who would be willing to administer the termination drugs. As you will note from the video above, euthanasia idea comes straight from the Nazi play book.

There is a slippery slope to this law. It starts off with nobel purposes, but in time exceptions may be made to allow children with disabilities to die.I oppose this bill because it puts doctors and guardians in charge with making value judgements to sentence a person to death because in their mind they would be better off dead than alive. Like the Nazi doctors in Hitler's Germany, they will routinely sign off on paperwork because in the long run it would save the state money that would ordinarily go into convalescent care of the individual In one video I watched in preparation of this blog post there was a trans person who asked to be euthanized when his gender surgery failed. In Canada they are allowing people who suffer from depression with the right to be euthanized. Do you see where I'm going with this?

In my opinion, the slippery slope began at the start of 2020 when the CDC scared the populace into believing that attending Church is the greatest spreader of Covid and hence people should stayed away. For many, their faith suffered as hopelessness settled in. For some, this led to increased alcohol and drug use to 'help' them to cope with the pain of isolation. Some died from suicide while others died from opioid deaths. Some died from tragic accidents. Every month the CDC continued to spread the fear of covid by illustrating dead bodies in the streets, full hospital beds that were overflowing in the hospital corridor.The system was encouraged to spread this lie by a complex billing system whenever there was a positive covid test for the patiant, or when the patient needed to be intubated

Extreme hopelessness settled in when virtual school began. Children fell behind their age required acheivements so much that many were unable to pass a college entrance exam.

As a Christian, I have always believe in the power of Jesus Christ in giving new meaning to a person's life. One clear example of this were the words of Jesus from John 9:

As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. 2 His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

3 “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him." I believe that God divinely makes us into His image As a result, we must not play God to decide which people have value and which ones are worth keeping alive. I sincerely hope that there is enough push back to reject this euthanasia bill that I think will be coming up for a vote this legislative session.