Grief & Gratitude: A Sermon

*Feel free to read, listen, or watch this sermon - whatever you need right now.

Grief & Gratitude hold hands with one another

When childhood abuse and trauma shape your life, and depression grows from that soil, healing becomes a life-long commitment. It's not a one-time fix. It's not linear. It’s daily work. And it’s a commitment I carry willingly—because I remember what it felt like when life had no meaning. To now find meaning, even in the smallest things, is a joy I never take for granted.

Those who’ve truly hit rock bottom know this truth: it’s the simplest things that often save us.

A raindrop on a forest leaf

The smell of fresh coffee.

A robin joining you as you potter in the garden.

The slow drift of clouds across the sky.

Dappled light through trees.

The pitter-patter of rain on forest leaves.

These quiet, fleeting moments—so often overlooked—offer glimmers of peace. Drops of joy. They sustain me more than anyone can know.

And yet, alongside gratitude, I grieve. I grieve for what should have been.

Two loving parents.

A safe home.

A community to belong to.

Stability. Security. Unconditional love.

Instead, my life has been heavy with tragedy, exhausting in its isolation, and furious in its injustice. I yearn for the life I deserved. And at the same time, I accept the life I have. Grief doesn’t go away—it changes. Or maybe we change. Either way, we adapt. We grow around the absence.

So I hold both truths: I grieve for what I’ve lost, and I’m deeply grateful for what I have.

This tension, this duality—it’s profoundly human.

In recognition of Mental Health Awareness Week, I’m sharing this—not for pity, and not even for solidarity, though if my words help you feel seen, then I’m thankful. I share this because mental health isn’t a destination. It’s a road. Sometimes smooth, often rough, always winding. There are highs and lows. Wins and losses. But we walk it, day by day.

Nothing lasts forever...

I guard my peace fiercely—and gently.

I know my boundaries.

I know what helps.

I tend to my inner world like the parents I never had.

This is radical self-compassion. This is radical self-acceptance. This is the lifelong work of healing.

And if you’re struggling right now, please remember: this is not the end.

“Nothing lasts forever.”

That simple truth has carried me through many dark days.

So today, I honour both the absence and the presence.

I grieve. And I give thanks.

And I keep walking.