Hannah curled her fingers tightly around the damp paper in her lap, the ink smudged from the rain and her tears. The cemetery stood quiet around her, headstones like weary sentinels keeping watch over fading memories. Today marked exactly one year since her mother had died, and Hannah felt no closer to healing than she had the day they lowered Mama’s casket into the earth.
She had tried to be strong. She volunteered more at church, smiled when people asked how she was doing. But at night, when the house creaked and the air seemed too heavy to breathe, she would sit by her mother’s empty chair by the fireplace, clutching a worn Bible that smelled faintly of lavender and home.
As the rain tapered into a mist, Hannah blinked up at the sky, her soul raw with a hollow ache no words could name.
"Lord," she whispered, the words trembling into the cool afternoon, "how do I live with this hole in my heart? How do I move forward without her?"
An unexpected warmth spread through her chest — a gentle quietness, like the flicker of a candle in a dark room. Hannah wiped her nose on her sleeve and unfolded the soggy note she had brought with her. It was a verse her mother had written out by hand years ago: "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit" (Psalm 34:18).
She didn’t remember being crushed — she was crushed. Flattened under the weight of grief, barely recognizable to herself.
Still clutching the paper, Hannah stood and walked slowly toward the oak tree that had watched over her mother’s grave for a year of seasons. She noticed a small glimmer just at the base of the trunk — a bright green shoot, trembling but brave against the wet earth. A new sapling, pushing upward.
A tiny, impossible smile tugged at her mouth.
"Life still dares to grow," she said aloud, wonder threading through her voice.
The grief was still real, still raw. Yet in that uncertain green sprout, Hannah heard God’s whisper: You are not alone. This sadness is not the end.
Suddenly, memories came tumbling back — her mother’s laugh echoing in the kitchen, the way her hands made even folding laundry seem holy, the quiet strength in her prayers at night. Her loss was real, but so was the love that had shaped her, rooted her deep in faith.
Pulling her coat tighter, Hannah traced her fingertips over her mother's name carved into the stone. "You're still part of me," she said softly. "And God's still here. He hasn't let go."
She turned from the grave, not with a heavy heart, but carrying something more sacred — a tender, stubborn hope.
At home, Hannah set Mama’s Bible in her lap and let the pages fall open. Her eyes landed on Romans 8:38-39: "For I am convinced that neither death nor life...will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."
Grief would still come, like waves against her shore. But now, she knew she could stand — not by her strength, but by the nearness of the One who grieved with her and would one day wipe every tear from her eyes.
She smiled then, a real smile this time, gathering the Bible into her arms. "You're teaching me still, Mama," she whispered. "And so is He."
The house was warm when she walked inside, the fireplace murmuring low, casting a welcome glow. Without thinking, she set a second teacup on the table across from her own.
Because some bonds, Hannah realized, were never really broken. They only changed, like seeds that waited patient in dark soil until the right season called them brave enough to bloom.
And with God beside her, Spring would come, even to this wintered heart.
—
Supporting Bible Verses:
Hannah curled her fingers tightly around the damp paper in her lap, the ink smudged from the rain and her tears. The cemetery stood quiet around her, headstones like weary sentinels keeping watch over fading memories. Today marked exactly one year since her mother had died, and Hannah felt no closer to healing than she had the day they lowered Mama’s casket into the earth.
She had tried to be strong. She volunteered more at church, smiled when people asked how she was doing. But at night, when the house creaked and the air seemed too heavy to breathe, she would sit by her mother’s empty chair by the fireplace, clutching a worn Bible that smelled faintly of lavender and home.
As the rain tapered into a mist, Hannah blinked up at the sky, her soul raw with a hollow ache no words could name.
"Lord," she whispered, the words trembling into the cool afternoon, "how do I live with this hole in my heart? How do I move forward without her?"
An unexpected warmth spread through her chest — a gentle quietness, like the flicker of a candle in a dark room. Hannah wiped her nose on her sleeve and unfolded the soggy note she had brought with her. It was a verse her mother had written out by hand years ago: "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit" (Psalm 34:18).
She didn’t remember being crushed — she was crushed. Flattened under the weight of grief, barely recognizable to herself.
Still clutching the paper, Hannah stood and walked slowly toward the oak tree that had watched over her mother’s grave for a year of seasons. She noticed a small glimmer just at the base of the trunk — a bright green shoot, trembling but brave against the wet earth. A new sapling, pushing upward.
A tiny, impossible smile tugged at her mouth.
"Life still dares to grow," she said aloud, wonder threading through her voice.
The grief was still real, still raw. Yet in that uncertain green sprout, Hannah heard God’s whisper: You are not alone. This sadness is not the end.
Suddenly, memories came tumbling back — her mother’s laugh echoing in the kitchen, the way her hands made even folding laundry seem holy, the quiet strength in her prayers at night. Her loss was real, but so was the love that had shaped her, rooted her deep in faith.
Pulling her coat tighter, Hannah traced her fingertips over her mother's name carved into the stone. "You're still part of me," she said softly. "And God's still here. He hasn't let go."
She turned from the grave, not with a heavy heart, but carrying something more sacred — a tender, stubborn hope.
At home, Hannah set Mama’s Bible in her lap and let the pages fall open. Her eyes landed on Romans 8:38-39: "For I am convinced that neither death nor life...will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."
Grief would still come, like waves against her shore. But now, she knew she could stand — not by her strength, but by the nearness of the One who grieved with her and would one day wipe every tear from her eyes.
She smiled then, a real smile this time, gathering the Bible into her arms. "You're teaching me still, Mama," she whispered. "And so is He."
The house was warm when she walked inside, the fireplace murmuring low, casting a welcome glow. Without thinking, she set a second teacup on the table across from her own.
Because some bonds, Hannah realized, were never really broken. They only changed, like seeds that waited patient in dark soil until the right season called them brave enough to bloom.
And with God beside her, Spring would come, even to this wintered heart.
—
Supporting Bible Verses:
