Today's guest, Jonathon's book, indigo: the color of grief, captured me from the first page—a work that feels both intimate and universal. Indigo, the hue between blue and violet, appears in rainbows and twilight skies, yet it rarely gets named. Likewise, grief lingers in daily life, hovering just out of sight, unspoken because its rawness makes many uneasy. Jonathon uses the color as a quiet metaphor for sorrow that colors our existence without ever dominating the palette.

A decade ago, Jonathon's world shattered when his eldest daughter, Quincy, died in a sudden car accident. As a pastor, the loss forced him to confront a theology he'd long trusted. The image of a distant, strategic deity did not fit his pain. Instead, he came to see God as a presence of steadfast love, a hand that holds us tightly within the storm of our hurt.

The manuscript began as a sprawling outpouring of hundreds of thousands of words. Jonathon distilled it to a lean 12,000‑word narrative, deliberately leaving white space on each page. Those empty margins are invitations: they give readers room to breathe, linger on a line, and even inscribe their own thoughts beside his. The result is less a monologue and more a quiet dialogue—a shared place where grief can be named, held, and examined without pressure to resolve it.

Jonathon aims to reshape how we speak about loss. He urges us to move beyond the instinct to "fix" one another's pain with quick solutions. Instead, he calls for us to sit together in the shadow of sorrow, bearing witness to each other's wounds. In doing so, grief becomes a bridge rather than a barrier, allowing compassion to flow freely among those who have known its ache.

Indigo reminds us that, just as the color sits between the comforts of blue and the mystery of violet, grief occupies a space—neither wholly darkness nor pure light—but a profound shade that deepens our capacity for empathy and connection. The next time twilight drapes the sky in that deep, resonant hue, let it serve as a gentle reminder that indigo is not merely a color, but a quiet testament to the enduring presence of love within our deepest hurts.

During one of the first grief‑support group sessions that Eric and I attended in the weeks after Andy died, our Starlight Ministries facilitators led us in an exercise. We were given a black‑and‑white copy of an image created by H. Norman Wright titled "Grief – A Tangled Ball of Emotions." The picture resembled a ball of yarn, but instead of yarn strands, it had strips winding around the sphere, each labeled with a different emotion.

The exercise was simple. We received crayons and were asked to color in any stripe that represented an emotion we had felt during that week. I remember starting at the top: Loss – yes, I colored it in. Sadness – that one too. Anxiety – I'd been feeling pretty anxious, so I shaded it. Then came Confusion, Panic, and Dismay. I found myself actually feeling dismayed that I was coloring all of these emotions! I wondered whether I would ever reach a stripe I didn't feel. When I finally arrived at Vindictiveness, I was relieved to leave that one white. In total, I was shocked to discover that I had colored about 90 % of the more than thirty emotions on the ball.

Looking around the room, I was comforted to see that the vast majority of parents had papers that were almost completely filled in as well. While reading the recent podcast guest Michael's book The Million Stages of Grief, I saw how many emotions had surprised him in his own grieving process. That reminded me of the exercise from years ago and convinced me that it deserved a livestream discussion. Today, we explored several emotions that have surprised listeners of the show.

It is normal to experience twenty to thirty different emotions in a single day. Grief isn't a linear path but a swirling knot of feelings—each one valid, each one a sign of life moving forward. By naming, acknowledging, and gently sitting with even the most unexpected emotions, we give ourselves the space to heal. I encourage everyone to keep their own "tangled ball" nearby as a reminder that, no matter how full it looks, every colored strand is evidence of resilience and progress.

Today's guest, Stephanie, says that her son, Jr., had a lifelong mantra that he lived by - 'me versus me.' He even had this phrase tattooed on himself for his 18th birthday. Rather than measuring himself against anyone else, he aimed each day to outdo the person he had been yesterday.

A year ago, Jr. was a senior in high school, preparing to enlist in the Marine Corps. He was an avid athlete as a cross‑country runner, weightlifter, and participant in several team sports. That autumn, he trained for a half‑marathon, hoping to break the two‑hour barrier.

The whole family was at the race, cheering Jr. on. He made his goal and finished the race in 1 hour, 57 minutes. Moments after crossing the line, however, Jr. collapsed. Stephanie rushed to his side, fearing dehydration, but quickly realized something was terribly wrong. She dialed 911. Paramedics arrived and began CPR within 72 seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Stephanie. An autopsy later showed that Jr. died of a brain bleed from a venous malformation that had likely been present since birth.

The last year has been a trying one for Stephanie and her family. The past twelve months have been a cascade of missed milestones — his high school graduation, the start of Marine basic training, his 19th birthday — each one a painful reminder of Jr.'s absence. As these days come and go, the family tries to remember Jr. and his motto: 'Me versus me.' Friends have even made T-shirts and bumper stickers with the phrase. Each time Stephanie sees one of these items, she is reminded of Jr. and his amazing spirit.

When Stephanie was invited to share a final thought, she spoke the words she believes Jr. would have lived by: 'Show up and do your very best. Tomorrow, show up again and do even better.' If we each embraced that simple challenge, the world would indeed be a kinder place.

Today's guest, Lisa, says she has always felt a special, spiritual link to her eldest daughter, Libby—starting when Libby was an infant and lasting throughout her life. One night, Lisa complained to her husband about a throbbing thumb. The next morning, Libby called, saying she had hurt her thumb and thought it was broken. When Libby's father asked if the injury happened around 9 pm, Libby confirmed the time of the injury, but she was puzzled until he answered, "Your mother felt that."

Despite being over 200 miles away and unaware of any injury, Lisa sensed Libby's broken thumb that night. Six months later, at 1 am, Libby's friends called, reporting that she had vanished after being dropped off in a taxi. Lisa instantly feared the worst, though she tried to reassure them that Libby might simply be delayed. Deep down, she knew Libby was dead. She could not feel her as she normally could.

The following day, Lisa and her husband braved a harsh English winter storm to drive to Hull. As they passed the Humber Estuary—a vast inlet leading to the North Sea—Lisa whispered, "Libby is in that water." Her husband dismissed it as being 'silly,' but Lisa insisted she wasn't imagining it. Forty‑eight agonizing days later, police recovered Libby's body from those waters; she had been raped and murdered.

In the nearly seven years since that tragedy, Lisa and her family have endured relentless trauma. At first, she felt isolated despite the story dominating UK headlines, and for two years she seemed to lose herself entirely. Over the past five years, however, she has begun to heal by connecting with other bereaved parents, listening to podcasts, and sharing Libby's story with young people and police officers. She hopes that exposing the warning signs that preceded the murder will help protect other women.

And although Libby is no longer physically here with her, through her work, Lisa still feels connected to Libby. Lisa feels her as she does her "Libby work" in Libby's old bedroom, now her office. Our love for our children keeps that spiritual connection alive long after they are gone.

Jerry's passion is helping bereaved children. When I was first introduced to her, Jerry was described as a widowed mother with a heart for grieving kids. She'd written Joy Overcame Sorrow, a fictional tale for late‑elementary and middle‑school readers about a ten‑year‑old girl coping with her father's death. The story follows Joy's grief journey, letting parents buy a companion workbook so children can record their own feelings while reading.

I booked Jerry for the show because listeners frequently ask how parents can support grieving children. I didn't realize her personal loss mirrored our own so closely. Jerry lost her husband her best friend — and raised their young family alone. Before that, she endured four pregnancy losses, including delivering and burying two infants, Jenny and Jesse. Those early tragedies marked her first encounter with deep grief and forced her to help her surviving kids navigate sorrow. Little did she know the next forty years would bring more loss, both as a widow and as a K‑9 teacher working with grieving students.

In the classroom, Jerry advised fellow teachers on supporting grieving children. Many educators feel helpless; asking parents is tough because they, too, are immersed in grief. Colleagues urged her to write a book to help grieving children. Jerry had already published a non-fiction book, helping widows rediscover joy after loss, but writing for children would prove to be very different indeed.

Instead of a non‑fiction how‑to guide, Jerry chose fiction — a powerful decision. Stories teach while comforting, allowing children to see themselves reflected without overt instruction. Kids gravitate to narrative—they don't want to feel singled out. By experiencing grief through Joy's eyes, they learn, empathize, and feel less alone. Her novel and its workbook now serve as a gentle bridge for families and teachers navigating the delicate path of loss together.

To learn more about Jerry and her writing, visit drjerrylwoodbridge.com.

Eight minutes.

That is how long it took for Michael's life to be forever changed. In late November 2016, a fire broke out in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Unbeknownst to Michael, the winds picked up while he was driving with his oldest son, and the fires swept toward the family home. Michael is haunted by nightmares of his frantic drive back through the fires, trying to get back home.

By the time he arrived, the fire had taken the lives of his daughters, Chloe and Lily, as well as his wife, Constance. In the months after the fires, as Michael struggled to sleep, he would write about his pain. One day, he posted a writing on Facebook. It "went nuts," causing Michael to start a blog.

Michael continued in his dark world until November 2023, when he stood at the memorial for the fires. He whispered to the empty air, opening his heart to the girls he had lost. In the silence, he heard Chloe's voice, bright and urgent: "Daddy, it's time to do the work." The words struck a chord deep inside him. That night, he enrolled in college, determined to learn how to translate his pain into something to help others.

Thus, The Million Stages of Grief was born. Each chapter opens with an italicized fragment from his old blog — a snapshot of confusion, terror, or numbness. The remainder of the chapter presents the lessons he gathered in classrooms, therapy rooms, and through life's experiences, reshaping those dark moments into pathways forward. Before pressing "publish," Michael whispered a brief prayer, handing the manuscript over to his girls, asking, "I am completely giving this to you. However big you want this to go, however many people you want to read it, I give it all to you."

Years ago, while working as a zipline instructor, a woman kicked Michael, knocking him over. Inexplicably, five years later and one month after that prayer, she posted the video to TikTok, garnering 1.5 million views. Curious, Michael created his own TikTok account, stitching the video to a narration of his story and book. The new post surged to 2.5 million views. I guess his girls decided that their story needed to go very big indeed.

He should be here.

Today's guest, Lindsay, says that these are the four most impactful words that have been said to her in the year since her 6-month-old son, Chase, died from bacterial meningitis. These words don't try to cheer her up or remind her of some grand plan. They simply acknowledge the wrongness of the whole situation. Lindsay's family no longer feels complete without Chase. Smiling 'Chasey' should be tagging along, trying to keep up with his big brother, Jack. Chase should be here.

From the time her two boys were tiny babies, Lindsay would read to them. She loved reading board books by Nancy Tillman, especially 'On the Night You Were Born' and 'Wherever You Go: My Love Will Find You.' This second book begins with the line, 'I wanted you more than you'll ever know, so I sent love to follow wherever you go.'

The book goes on to describe how the mother's love will follow the child wherever he or she goes, whether it be going swimming, climbing trees, or marching in parades. It reminds the child that as they grow, their mother's love will continue to follow them throughout life. The last line of the book reads, 'You are my angel, my darling, my star, and my love will find you wherever you are.'

Since Chase's death, Lindsay has truly realized the truth of that little board book. The book was certainly not written for grieving parents, but we can hold fast to the words of that book, can't we? Death does not end our love for our children. Our love continues to follow them after death.

Lindsay's love for Chase has followed him all the way to heaven. In the year since Chase died, her love for Chase has not diminished. Her love has continued to grow just as it does for all mothers. On Chase's birthday, Lindsay now donates 70 copies of 'Wherever You Go: My Love will Find You' to the NICU where she works and Baby Chase once stayed.

Certainly, Chase should be here as a laughing, smiling toddler, but as she sees parents read these books to their new babies, Lindsay remembers that their love for each other continues to grow, and these books will help spread that love even further.

I feel like God arranges for certain guests to come on the podcast just when I need them most. On the day of this interview, I was particularly weepy, missing Andy even more than I normally do. I think God knew I needed someone to cry with, and Nancy was that someone.

Nancy calls her son, Jacob, her Buddha baby, weighing 11 pounds 3 ounces at birth. The bib that they brought with them to the hospital would not even fit around his neck. However, that was not the only reason Jacob was called her Buddha Baby. Even as an infant, Jacob seemed to be a calming presence to everyone around him.

Shortly after graduating from high school, Jacob was feeling a bit tired while working a new job. He noticed a lump that was quickly determined to be lymphoma. However, cancer did not slow him down. Jacob was determined to keep living his best life and even started school after his diagnosis. When beginning a new cancer treatment, it was expected that he would be in the hospital for a relatively short stay and then move on with life.

In fact, at 19 years of age, Jacob would only let Nancy stay a certain number of hours each day so he could have some privacy. Suddenly, one evening after Nancy went back to her hotel, everything changed. In a matter of hours, Jacob suffered severe complications from the treatment, leading to brain swelling. Jacob, her amazing teenage Buddha, was gone.

In the five months between Jacob's death and this interview, Nancy feels as if she has been living in a fog. She finds that she just wants to keep moving and walking constantly. At times, she wondered if she would even be able to make it back home. Tears still come daily. She has joined support groups, where she talks to other bereaved mothers who get it. She listens to my podcast during long walks. Nancy talks to Jacob and looks for signs of him in nature.

So in today's episode, we talked about and cried for our boys. She understood my pain, and I understood hers, and after an hour of talking and crying, I knew that we both felt just a little bit better. So thank you, God, for sending Nancy just when we needed each other most.

Grief and Laughter.

At first glance, it may seem like these words could be considered polar opposites, but as we grieve, moments of laughter and joy can be a balm for the soul. The intense pain of grief oftentimes feels overwhelming. It is deep and dark, and it can feel like it will go on forever.

I remember the first time that I laughed after Andy died. I felt tremendous guilt. Andy was dead. I felt like I should never laugh again. I should be sad every moment of every day. But that is not how we were made. We were created to be beings that felt joy and happiness. My mind wouldn't let me stay in the darkness continuously, and that is a good thing.

Laughter can bring a tremendous release of emotions in much the same way that crying brings release. Most people do not feel guilty when they cry during grief, but laughter can cause guilt. My hope is to help people learn that laughter is amazing medicine for the soul and not something to avoid.

This week's podcast is an edited release of the Livestream with Gwen. (If you tuned in and had a difficult time listening due to technical problems, I apologize. This version is much better!) Gwen shares her wisdom on the benefits of laughter and learning to reintroduce laughter into our lives while still navigating through the depths of our pain.

We are certainly not suggesting that someone can simply let go of their grief and choose to be happy. (Many people have said those words to me, and frankly, that is simplistic and absurd.) We are asking you to seek out moments of laughter and joy. Seek out people in your life who make you feel good, even if it's only for a few hours or a few minutes. For me, the best people to laugh with are actually other bereaved parents. It feels safe to laugh with them, knowing that they will not judge me if I laugh and cry at the same time.

Having those people and moments in your life may help make the pit of grief feel a little less dark and help you feel a little less alone.

Today's guest, Catherine, says that in many ways, she grieved for her daughter, Helen, not once but twice. The grieving began after she suffered complications during delivery, which led to seizures that began shortly after birth and multiple medical complications. Catherine grieved for the life she had hoped and dreamed of for Helen. Then, fourteen years later, Catherine's grief started fresh when Helen died unexpectedly in her sleep.

Although Catherine says that she grieved Helen twice, Helen's 14 years were not years full of sadness and grief. They were joy-filled years. Catherine loved being Helen's hands and feet. She loved seeing her eyes light up and give big smiles. Catherine was a part of Helen, and Helen was a part of her. One day, when Helen was young, the two of them were watching TV, and Catherine saw the inspirational story of Team Hoyt, a father-son duo who competed in over 1,100 races, including numerous Ironman Triathlons. Son Rick suffered from cerebral palsy, but said that when racing in a specialized wheelchair with his dad, Dick, he felt freedom and joy.

After Helen died, Catherine felt lost. She did not know what to do with herself without Helen being beside her. When asking her priest for advice, he answered that he didn't know what she should do, but that for many, participation in sport could be a good healing modality. That's when Catherine began to think once again about the inspirational story of the Hoyts. She knew that she couldn't physically swim, run, and bike with Helen, but perhaps she could still be with her emotionally. That's exactly what Catherine did. Her first triathlon was done almost secretively, with only her husband's knowledge. As she waited in the water of the lake at the beginning of the race, wondering if she had made a mistake in signing up, until the sun began to rise, and she felt Helen with her.

Over the years, Catherine has continued to train and now races in an Ironman triathlon each year, following in the Hoyts' footsteps. She compares the training to her life, first as a mom of a special needs child and now as a bereaved mom. She chronicles her journey in her book, Finding My Stride: A Guide to Finding Power Raising a Child with Special Needs.