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Grief doesn’t always come with big answers. Sometimes it comes with small, unexpected mercies. My two cats—Dexter the all-black house panther and Gilbert the tuxedo supervisor—have taught me that. They don’t fix anything. They don’t explain why loss hurts so deeply. They simply show up: curling into empty laps, purring against aching hearts, claiming the best cardboard boxes like they own the place. Their quiet weight, their soft fur, their insistence on being close—it remind

Julie DesJarlais, MDiv in Pastoral Care. Grief companion rooted in Christ, offering gentle presence in northeast Wisconsin & UP Michigan. You’re never alone.

I planted a flower garden years ago, not knowing how much it would teach me about grief. Every summer it explodes—wave after wave of color, perennials pushing through hard soil, annuals blooming despite late frosts. Neighbors stop their cars to say, “It looks like a magazine!” But I know the truth: it’s stubborn. It grows back even after harsh winters, dry spells, and being trampled. Grief is like that too. Hope doesn’t always arrive quickly or gently. It grows back stubborn—