April 24th…

There has been this annoying feeling staring at me for the past week. I tried to brush it off, but this all-too-familiar feeling just wouldn’t go away. And then April 24th rolls around… and I feel numb.

26 years later, and I still cry.
26 years later, and there’s still something missing.
26 years later, and it still feels like my heart stops because she’s not here.

I still feel like that 14-year-old girl who, 26 years ago, lost everything when my mother died.

This wave of grief hasn’t hit me in years. But here I am—lying in the middle of an answered prayer, settled in a country that has felt more like home in two months than anywhere has in the last two decades… and I’m still grieving this day.

Not because I’m not happy.
Not because I’m not grateful.

But because the one person I want to share my joy with… is gone.

How do you reconcile that?
How do you provide an answer or a solution to something that is beyond your control?
How do you fix something when you are completely powerless?

Then God led me to Abraham.

“The Lord had said to Abram, ‘Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you.’” — Genesis 12:1

Abraham didn’t just move.
He left everything.

Everything familiar—his country, his people, his father’s house… everything that made him feel at home.

And God didn’t give him a full picture.
He just said, go.

“So Abram went, as the Lord had told him…” — Genesis 12:4

That part right there… that’s what got me.

Because in a different way, I did too.

I stepped into a new country.
And a new chapter that feels like an answered prayer.

But in doing that… there are parts of my life that didn’t come with me.

And one of the deepest parts… is my mother.

That feeling…
that something that should be here… isn’t.

Have you ever been in the middle of something beautiful…
and painful at the same time?

But God gave Abraham a promise in the middle of that leaving.

A promise in the middle of sacrifice.
A promise in the middle of uncertainty.
A promise while everything didn’t feel complete.

Abraham was seventy-five years old when he left (Genesis 12:4), and one hundred years old when the promise was fulfilled with the birth of his son Isaac (Genesis 21:5).

That’s a long time to carry something unresolved.
A long time to sit in the tension of what is and what was promised.

And I realized… that’s where I am.

I’ve carried this grief for 26 years.

And even now… in a moment that feels like fulfillment…
there’s still something missing.

I imagine Abraham felt that too.

Not because God wasn’t good.
Not because the promise wasn’t real.

But because the journey didn’t erase the cost.

Still… Abraham believed. (Romans 4:18)

And that’s the part that gives me something to hold onto.

Because I don’t have a solution for this.

I can’t fix the fact that my mother is gone.
I can’t change that she’s not here to see this version of my life.
I can’t make this ache disappear.

It just… is.

But I can move forward.

I can hold grief in one hand… and gratitude in the other.
I can cry… and still rejoice.
I can acknowledge that something is missing…
and still believe that God is present.

Because He has been.

Through every part of my story.

He never left me.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

So here I am…

In Lisbon.

Crying both tears of joy… and tears of grief… from the same body, the same soul.

And realizing… God is in both.

He is with me in what I’ve gained…
and He is with me in what I’ve lost.

But I am reminded that:

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

And as I watch the sunrise over the Lisbon sky…

…it’s morning.