There is something about Easter that holds both ache and beauty in the same breath.
During this past season of lent we have been reminded again and again of our mission: to walk with families in the valley. To sit with them in the unknown, to offer light in places that feel unbearably dark, and to witness the quiet, courageous love that blooms even in sorrow.
The image of the lily of the valley has never felt more fitting.
We often speak of this flower as a symbol of hope, joy, light, and beauty that blossoms after walking through a valley of darkness. But what we later learned deepened that meaning even more: lily of the valley is also called “Mother of Tears.” Tradition holds that these delicate blooms sprang up at the foot of the Cross—where Mary stood, suffering and mourning the death of her Son.
Tears that touched the ground.
Sorrow that gave way to something living.
In a beautiful and providential way, we also came to learn from the daughter of Saint Gianna Beretta Molla that lily of the valley was her mother’s favorite flower—their family flower. A flower tied to both purity and death. Found in wedding bouquets and funeral arrangements alike. It felt, unmistakably, like the name chosen for this ministry had been placed long before we ever spoke it aloud.
Because this is the tension we live in:
Life and loss.
Joy and sorrow.
Death and resurrection.
*trigger warning*
This Lent, I found myself reflecting on the fear of the apostles.
They were always running—fleeing those who threatened them. Jesus would say, “My time has not yet come.” And yet, when the time finally came—when He told them at the Last Supper, when He did not run as they came to arrest Him—they still reacted in the only way they knew how.
Fight or flight.
One reached for a sword and cut off a soldier’s ear. And I imagine the shock—the utter confusion—when Jesus healed the man… and then allowed Himself to be taken.
He didn’t resist.
He didn’t run.
He chose to stay.
I’ve sat with that moment and asked myself: What would I have done?
Easter always brings me back to my own walk with my son, Colin.
We lived in a space of not knowing—never certain when his time would come. And in many ways, that differs from Lent. Because during Lent, we walk toward the Cross knowing that Easter Sunday is coming. We know the Resurrection is near.
But when Colin died, we did not have “three days.”
And yet… we had something else.
We had the promise.
The promise made possible only because of the suffering and sacrifice of Jesus. The promise that this broken world is not the end. That Heaven is real. That we will be reunited—not only with Christ, but with those we love.
I have never felt more deeply the weight of Good Friday…
and never been more grateful for what came after.
I often think about Mary.
By the time she stood at the foot of the Cross, she had already known loss. We assume her husband Joseph had already died. And now here she was, watching her Son suffer.
The Stations of the Cross always bring me into her perspective—not just as a witness, but as a mother.
And I find myself reflecting not only on what she endured…
but on what she didn’t say.
She didn’t say:
“Stop.”
“Take me instead.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Enough.”
She stood.
She stayed.
She suffered in silence, in love, in surrender.
There is a quiet strength there that is almost too much to comprehend.
I remember what I now call my own Pietà moment.
I remember holding my son’s lifeless body in my arms after his death as his own blood trickled down his face.
Washing his fragile skin and dressing him for burial.
Saying goodbye.
I remember leaving the hospital without my baby. It would take me a year to realize it was St. Gianna Molla’s feast day and that so many people had prayed her novena for mother’s like me. I truly believe the prayers offered up came down in showers of grace which allowed us to walk through the unfathomable.
I remember standing by his grave. The dampness of the earth. The sound of the shovel and the dirt. (I wonder how loud the stone was rolling to cover the entrance of Christ’s tomb.)
There is a stillness in those moments that feels almost like Holy Saturday—a space suspended between heartbreak and hope. A place where time slows, where grief is heavy, and where heaven feels both impossibly far and intimately near.
I can understand, in my own small way, Mary’s tears.
And maybe that is why the image of the lily of the valley matters so much.
Because even there—at the foot of the Cross, in the deepest sorrow—something was quietly beginning to bloom.
Easter reminds us that sorrow is never the end of the story.
Yes, there is profound grief.
Yes, there is loss that changes us forever.
But there is also resurrection.
When Jesus rose, it was not only joy for His mother—it was joy for all of us. A promise fulfilled. A door opened. A future secured.
That we, too, will rise.
That we, too, will be made whole.
That we, too, will be reunited—on the last day, in glory, in love.
This is the heart of our mission.
To walk with families in the valley.
To honor the tears.
To hold space for the sorrow.
And to gently remind one another:
Something is still growing here.
Even now.
Even here.
Because from the valley…
blooms hope.
And from the Cross…
came life.
Image Credit: Simply Joyful Prints