Cheryl Christopher

To those of you who have lost your children, your spouse, or your parents this year….

Oh my…The first Holidays…

I feel your pain and your sorrow… if only I could spare you, I would

The Holidays—once a time for joy, for singing, for hope, for giving… for all the best parts of living… Good food, friends gathering, new clothes, dressing up, sharing, celebration.

What now?

How, oh dear God, do we even get through it?

If I could hold each of you in my arms, and I do in my prayers for you, I would tell you that your loved one is safe-- in the arms of Love, even greater than your own. I know that because the Lord has told me so.

But as you face the future, you want to know the truth. I know, because I did. The truth is, you will always miss them. Is the first year the hardest? Probably. But every year brings its own weight, its own ache, its own reminders.

Knowing they were a gift does help. They were never truly ours.

In Notes to Myself, Hugh Prather confronted this same truth on a night when he believed his beloved wife might not survive until morning. He wrote:
She may die before morning. But I have been with her for four years. There is no way I could feel cheated if I didn’t have her for another day. I didn’t deserve her for one minute, God knows. Few can choose when they will die. I choose to accept death now. As of this moment, I give up my “right to live.” And I give up my “right” to her life.
But it is morning. I have been given another day. And so has she. Another day to hear and read and smell and walk and love and glory. I am alive for another day. I think of those who aren’t.

When it comes to life and death, we have no “right” to be alive.
I had no right to the length of my children’s lives, no right to their presence, no right to celebrate their future achievements, and no right to the grandchildren who will never be born.

God measures out the days, the hours, the minutes of our lives. Every year, every day, every hour—every moment—is a gift.

And the only appropriate response to a gift is gratitude.

Choosing gratitude doesn’t remove the pain, but it does reframe our loss. Somehow, remembering that our loved ones were a gift makes the suffering just a little more bearable. We can choose to be angry for the shortness of their lives—or, even though it is often difficult while grieving, we can be grateful that they had a chance at life at all.

If we are honest, we would all agree: the pain has been a small price to pay for having had our beloved, even for a short time. And that gratitude—for those days, those moments, those treasured memories—will grow deeper with each passing year.

I encourage you to listen to the music I recommend in my book. It will help you grieve and, in time, heal. My favorite is "Way Maker" ( Live from Passion 2020). Just put it into Google. It is a song filled with reminders that we serve the living God, who is at work in our darkness to bring light.

While walking through this darkness—while our sufferings and losses remain a mystery—we still must choose how to live today. Will we choose faith in God’s character and His promises, or will we live by sight, trusting only what we can see at the moment?

Choose faith.

There will come a day when the waiting is over—when faith becomes sight. Believe with me that God truly is working “all things together for good” (Romans 8:28), and that He is “able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine” (Ephesians 3:20).

You will get through this! I am praying for you in the miracle-working name "Jesus".

EASTER, 2025

Several weeks ago, I attended my high school reunion. Honestly, I wasn’t too excited about going. My closest friends from those years never came to the reunions and didn’t attend this one either. I almost talked myself out of it. But to my surprise, I enjoyed it tremendously.

At first, it was hard to recognize some faces. Time had done its work—adding lines, silver hair, and a few extra pounds here and there. But after a minute or two, I could see it—the young face still shining within the older one. It didn’t take long for memories to bubble up, and for the years to melt away.

Today is Easter, and my mind keeps drifting from that earthly reunion to a greater one yet to come. One day, we will gather again—not at a country club or a banquet hall, but in the presence of Christ Himself. There, we will see our loved ones who have gone before us. I don't think it will take long to recognize them either. I’m not sure how it will be—will my lost boys be men? Will my mom be young? I don’t know. But I believe the same thing will happen and after just a glance, the heart will know. Time, sorrow, even death itself, will have lost its power to separate us.

Easter reminds us that because Jesus lives, this reunion is not just a hope—it’s a promise. The grave could not hold Him, and because of that, it cannot hold us either. We will see one another again, face to face, in a place of no goodbyes.

“For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord.”
— 1 Thessalonians 4:16-17 (NKJV)