Grief from the Valley — Part 5 Resurrection Sunday: God Said No, But Heaven Said Yes

Resurrection Sunday used to feel like celebration.

Now… it feels like contrast.

Because how do you shout “He is risen!” when your heart is still carrying what feels like death?

How do you celebrate life…when you have buried your own children?

This is the part people don’t talk about.

Grief looks different on holidays.

It’s louder.

It’s sharper.

It’s more present.

Because everything around you is trying to be joyful…and you are trying to hold yourself together.

Today is Resurrection Sunday.

And I believe in the resurrection.

I believe that Jesus got up.

I believe the stone was rolled away.

I believe death was defeated.

But I also believe this truth that sits right next to it:

God said no.

He said no to the prayers I begged Him for.

He said no to the outcomes I believed for.

He said no… and I had to live through it anyway.

He said no when I wanted Darren to stay.

He said no when I wanted Jaxon to live.

And there is nothing light about that.

There is nothing easy about waking up in a world

where your children’s names are spoken in memory instead of in motion.

But Resurrection Sunday forces me to sit in a deeper truth:

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son…” — John 3:16

God knows what it feels like to give up a Son.

God knows what it feels like to watch suffering and not stop it.

God knows what it feels like to endure loss that changes everything.

And yet…

He also knows what it means to redeem it.

“He will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces.” — Isaiah 25:8

So today, I am standing in between two realities:

I am a mother who has buried her sons.

And I am a believer who knows the grave did not win.

Because He paid it all.

“Surely He took up our pain and bore our suffering…” — Isaiah 53:4

That means He carried this grief too.

The kind that sits in your chest on holidays.

The kind that shows up when you see families dressed for Easter.

The kind that whispers, “They should be here.”

And yes…

they should be here.

Darren should be here.

Jaxon should be here.

I should be taking pictures.

I should be fixing outfits.

I should be managing chaos, not memories.

But instead…

I am holding grief in one hand and holding onto my living child in the other.

And that is a different kind of strength.

That is a different kind of faith.

Because while I am grieving what I lost…

I am still raising what I have.

And that requires something deep.

That requires me to choose life

even when I have experienced death.

“I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life…” — Deuteronomy 30:19

So today, I choose to show up.

Not perfectly.

Not without tears.

Not without moments where I have to step away and breathe.

But I choose to show up.

For my child who is still here.

For the life that is still in front of me.

For the purpose that didn’t die with my sons.

Because here is the truth I am learning in this valley:

Grief does not cancel purpose.

It reshapes it.

It deepens it.

It makes it more intentional.

And on Resurrection Sunday…

I am reminded that what looks like an ending is not the end.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!” — Luke 24:5–6

So when I think about Darren…

when I think about Jaxon…

I don’t see them as gone.

I see them as with Him.

Alive in a way that doesn’t hurt.

Whole in a way this world could not give them.

And that…

that is the only thing that holds me together some days.

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.” — Psalm 116:15

That means their lives mattered.

Their existence mattered.

Their departure was not unnoticed by heaven.

But let me say this clearly for anyone walking this with me:

Knowing they are in heaven does not mean I don’t miss them here.

It doesn’t mean I don’t ache.

It doesn’t mean I don’t have moments where I want to scream.

It just means…

I grieve with hope.

“We do not grieve as those who have no hope.” — 1 Thessalonians 4:13

So today…

I celebrate Resurrection Sunday

with tears in my eyes

and faith in my heart.

I celebrate knowing that Jesus got up…

and because He got up, my sons did too.

Not here.

But there.

And one day… I will see them again.

Until then…

I will keep walking.

I will keep mothering.

I will keep loving.

I will keep breathing through the hard moments.

I will keep honoring their names.

Darren.

Jaxon.

And I will keep holding onto this truth:

God said no…

but heaven said yes.

Yes to eternal life.

Yes to healing.

Yes to a reunion that death cannot stop.

So if today is hard for you too…

If holidays feel heavier than they should…

If you are smiling on the outside

and breaking on the inside…

hear me:

Hope still stays.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because it doesn’t hurt.

But because He paid it all.

And as we carry this—

grief, love, memory, and faith—

be gentle.

Be patient.

And above all…

be kind.

But I want to tell the truth about that too…

Because in grief, being kind can be hard.

Grief is not always soft.

It is not always quiet.

Sometimes it comes out sharp.

Sometimes it sounds like anger.

Sometimes it reaches for the people closest to you—

not because you don’t love them,

but because you do.

Because they are safe.

Because they are there.

Because they are still here.

And sometimes…

grief makes you miss the mark.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another…” — Ephesians 4:32

I know that scripture.

I believe that scripture.

But I also know what it feels like

to be overwhelmed with pain

and not respond the way I should.

So I want to say this—openly, honestly, and with love:

Mommy… I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the moments

where my grief turned into frustration.

I’m sorry for the moments

where my pain spoke louder than my love.

I’m sorry for the times

I wasn’t as kind as I should have been.

“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” — Proverbs 15:1

I am still learning how to carry this.

I am still learning how to grieve without letting it spill over onto the people who love me most.

Please know…

my heart is not against you.

My grief is just heavy.

And I am doing the best I can

while learning how to live with something

I never asked for.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

So even here—

in the places where I fall short—

God is still near.

Still covering.

Still teaching me how to love better

through the pain.

And I will keep trying.

I will keep growing.

I will keep choosing love—

even when it’s hard.

Because even in grief…

love still remains.

And I mean that.​

— Shantrael Taylor

Grief from the Valley Series