MSI Press Blog

MSI Press Author Joanna Romer has made a unique contribution to the bereavement literature. Interviewing widows and widowers, she has written three books: The Widower's Guide to a New Life . A Book of the Year finalist and receiver of fine reviews. Click on the title to learn more and to access reviews at Library Journey, Foreword Reviews, MidWest Book Review, US Review of Books, Library Thing... Widow: A Surival Guide for the First Year . Click on the lin https://msipressblog.blogspot.com/search?q=bereavement k to read reviews such as those at Midwest Book Review, Goodreads, and US Review of Books. Wudiw: How to Survive -- and Thrive! -- in Your 2d, 3rd, and 4th Years . Click on the link to read more about this book. See more of Joanna's books HERE . Read more about Joanna and her work HERE . See more works on bereavement and grief HERE .

  I have written a bit about the process of pets dying before, along with the ways in which vets can be (or not) helpful. In that post, I shared a book by Barbara Karnes on understanding the pet-dying process, which I had found very helpful and which would have provided me with a fair amount of relief and guidance had I known about while Murjan was still alive. It explained much about his dying process and death that was comforting in retrospect. You can read that post HERE . In this post, I want to share the emotional aspects not only of the dying itself but also of the role of the support community (which should be supportive but in our case was not so, at least not to the extent that we needed and that could have been). As a result, my experience with Murjan's dying days were traumatic--more traumatic than they should have been because of lack of support from the veterinary hospital that should have been my source of support.  As I explained in the earlier post, Murjan had...

  When loss first strikes, words collapse under the weight of what cannot be explained. The heart retreats into quiet, not because it has stopped believing, but because belief itself feels broken. Silence becomes the only honest language left. It teaches us that the conversation never truly ends — it only deepens. Grief often silences prayer. But faith does not end in silence. Over time, it begins to reshape it. At first, the question is Why did this happen? — a cry toward heaven that expects no answer. Yet as faith matures, the question changes. It becomes How can I live with this? That shift marks the beginning of dialogue. The believer moves from demanding explanation to seeking companionship — from interrogation to conversation. Faith, then, is not certainty. It is relationship. It is the willingness to stay in conversation with God even when understanding fails. It is the courage to speak through tears, to listen through confusion, and to trust that the silence itself may be...

  Faith does not demand that we stop crying or “move on.” It allows us to grieve fully, knowing that love is stronger than death. In Scripture, even Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus. His tears remind us that sorrow is not a failure of faith — it’s part of love’s expression. The Son of God did not stand apart from human pain; He entered it. He didn’t rush to the resurrection moment. He paused in the ache of loss, honoring the weight of what had been broken. Faith gives permission to feel everything: the anger, the confusion, the silence. It doesn’t erase the human experience; it sanctifies it. It whispers, You are not alone in this. It holds space for lament and for hope to coexist — for tears to fall even as trust remains. Grief, in the light of faith, becomes a kind of prayer. Each tear says, This mattered. This love was real. And faith answers, Yes — and it still is. To believe is not to bypass sorrow but to carry it differently: with the quiet assurance that every loss is...

  Healing does not mean forgetting the child. It means learning to carry their memory differently — with gentleness instead of agony. The love remains; the sharpness softens. Faith becomes the vessel that holds what the heart cannot hold alone. The Transformation of Pain Grief begins as rupture — a tearing of the world’s fabric. Every sound, every season, every familiar place reminds you of what is missing. But over time, faith teaches that pain can be transformed, not erased. It becomes a kind of sacred energy — the impulse to plant trees, start foundations, write, mentor, or love others more deeply because of what was lost. Each act of compassion becomes a continuation of the child’s life in the world. Faith as Alchemy Faith does not cancel sorrow; it changes its chemistry. It turns despair into devotion, absence into presence, silence into service. Through faith, grief becomes a form of love that continues to give. It is the unseen thread connecting heaven and earth — the way lo...

  When grief feels endless, faith offers a horizon beyond the visible. It tells us that life is not confined to the body — that the soul continues, that reunion is possible. For many parents, this belief becomes the lifeline: the conviction that their child is safe, whole, and held in divine love. Faith reframes loss as separation, not annihilation. It doesn’t explain the why , but it gives a where — a place of peace beyond pain. Grief, by its nature, collapses time. It makes every moment feel like the first moment of loss. Faith stretches time again. It opens the view. It reminds us that the story is not finished, that love does not end where breath does. To believe in the soul’s continuity is not denial — it is defiance. It is the refusal to let death have the final word. Faith whispers that the bond between parent and child is not severed but transformed. It becomes invisible, yes, but not unreal. It becomes the quiet pulse beneath prayer, the unseen thread that still connects ...