Those Who Mourn

by Yvette Buller

I was on my knees before the Blessed Sacrament. It was just the two of us. For once, I spoke aloud instead of whispering. I had reached my breaking point, and He knew it. He was there waiting for me. It was then that I fully surrendered everything to Him, and I felt His embrace.

He did not tell me that everything was going to be alright. What He did say was: “I am with you always” (cf. Matthew 28:20). And with that, something inside me lifted. The weight of grief seemed to shift, as though Someone else was helping me carry it.

That’s when I began to realize just how exhausted I was from always trying to hold everyone together, how much I feared what might happen if I stopped being “strong,” and how difficult it was for me to truly surrender and let God lead. Yet even in my grief, I sensed hope rising—an invitation to trust more deeply, to rest in God’s care, and to believe that releasing my illusion of control is not an ending, but the beginning of grace.

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What I learned that day was that I could depend on Christ. He was the only One I could trust completely with my heart. Trust did not come easily for me. Although I had always prayed, I had not always trusted. I always felt the need to do something, to fix something, to remain in control.

By this time, I had been carrying life’s disappointments, hurts, and earlier losses on my own. I will admit that I dealt with pain by stuffing my feelings – eating too much, not eating enough, sleeping too much, not sleeping enough.  Coming from a large family, I learned to be self-sufficient early on. But unfortunately, I did not recognize that God was truly in control the entire time. Although I practiced the Catholic faith and did have some belief and devotion, had not turned my life over to His will. Not yet.

For some reason, others considered me somewhat of a matriarch of the family. I was the seventh child, the youngest of three daughters, but I suppose because of my “I’ve got it all together” persona, I always stepped up when there was a need in the family and “someone had to be strong” for everyone else.

But this time was different.

The grief of losing my son Michael alone was unfathomable. But combined with the weight of what I was already carrying, it was just too much for me. For the first time, I understood that I could not carry this alone.

But after that moment of surrender, something changed. My prayer life became something new, something deeper and more meaningful. In the past, when I heard people say they had a devotion to Our Lady, I secretly wished I also did. But I did not want to ask, and I did not know how to change what I was already doing. I prayed the Rosary daily. I have a very large piece of art that depicts the Blessed Mother holding the Infant Jesus on my living room wall as well as other images of her in various places in my home. Was this what devotion meant? It didn’t feel like it. 

Someone gave me a beautiful, full color statue of the Pietà that sits on a table in my living room. I began to look more closely at the Pietà. It was then that I began to see her not only as the Mother of God, but as a mother who had held her dead son and immediately, my heart went out to her in a way it never had before. I had once held my son the way she was holding hers. I knew her pain, and she knew mine. I realize that her Son is God—yet she is still His mother… and He died. In that very moment, she felt the pain of child loss. And I know that pain too. 

Photo by Richard Wang on Unsplash

I began to pray the Seven Sorrows of Mary Rosary daily in the place of the regular Rosary, and this too made our connection stronger. Mary always points us to her Son, the Son of God. That connection was very clear. He met me that day in Adoration. He knew I needed a mother—His mother, so He showed me how to become devoted to her. Praying the rosary was familiar, comforting, and through it, she introduced me to her Son in a new way.

How would I keep this up on my own? As time passed, I realized these moments, as profound as they were, would not sustain me on their own. As the days went by and I missed my son more and more, I knew I needed guidance, so I sought help through therapy, a grief support ministry, and spiritual direction. Taking care of myself was long overdue. My strength was not my own; I needed more, and I knew it. A few morning and night prayers and Sunday Masses would not be enough if I was going to be able to live with this. My life would never go back to the way it was before, but I wanted to find joy again, and I no longer wanted to carry old burdens. The loss of my son was enough on its own.

From that moment before Our Lord in the Tabernacle, prayer slowly became less of a routine and more of a relationship — almost a dance, if you will. I bring Him my attention, my love, my sorrow, and my gratitude. I spend time with Him every morning before beginning my day, and when I meet Him each week in the chapel, I write to Him and about Him. Sometimes I just remain, sometimes I lead, and sometimes I resist. Sometimes I lose the rhythm altogether. But He remains steady. He waits. And when I return, the dance begins again. It must be an ongoing, ever-changing flow of love. The dance continues throughout life’s highs and lows, joys and sorrows.

I attend weekday Mass whenever I can so that I may be nourished by His Word and by His Body and Blood. I encounter Him in the Sacrament of Reconciliation often, allowing Him to cleanse and steady my soul. There is a rhythm to our relationship. He calls; I come. I pray; He listens. Sometimes we just remain together in silence and know. I know that He is God, and He knows me—the me that He created—not the me that I created.

Over time, I have become more like Peter walking on the water. As long as I keep my eyes fixed on Christ, I do not merely survive — I remain afloat. I even find moments of peace and joy amid grief (cf. Matthew 14:29–31).

Recently, I stepped away from my usual routine for about a week. Aside from Sunday Mass, I did not attend Adoration or Weekday Mass. Within days, I felt myself sinking again. I missed my son intensely. A heaviness returned, and I no longer felt like myself. Deep down, I knew what was missing. I had drifted from the One who sustains me.

Saint Paul writes “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness. I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me.” (2 Corinthians 12:9) Christ has become my refuge, my strength, and the One who keeps me connected in love to my son.

As I write this, I have a song stuck in my head: “Be not afraid, I go before you always. Come follow Me, and I will give you rest.” That hymn was sung at my son Michael’s funeral, and at first, I could hardly bear to hear it. The pain attached to it was simply too great.

Every five days, that hymn returns. It still reminds me of the day we buried Michael, but it no longer carries the same unbearable ache. Now, it reminds me of the One who carried me when I could not stand on my own.

Grief still walks beside me. But so does Christ. And somehow, in the silence before the Blessed Sacrament, I am learning that joy and sorrow can still move together.

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