Eden & Ashes

The Deeper Healing: Mary Magdalene & Me

A continuation of the deeper blessing – where grief meets hope.

There’s something deeply human in the way Mary Magdalene stood outside the tomb, weeping.

She had followed Jesus, listened to His voice, and witnessed miracles. He had cast seven demons out of her, restored her dignity, and called her by name when others saw only her past. He gave her identity, purpose, and belonging.

And now, He was gone.

In her grief, she did what so many of us do. She returned to the place where she last saw Him. The tomb.

In John 20, she arrives in darkness, sees the stone rolled away, and runs to tell the disciples. But even after they come and go, she stays behind. Weeping.

This wasn’t just sorrow. It was despair. Disorientation. The unraveling of a hope she thought would last forever.

Then Jesus speaks one word that changes everything:
“Mary.”

There was a time I, too, stood at the edge of something that felt like a tomb.

The loss of my mum was the beginning of it. But what followed changed everything.

The night the police showed up at my door is one I’ll never forget.
Eunice’s face said it all before she spoke.

“It’s Ivan…”

Her voice broke. And so did something inside me.

We jumped in the car.
Silence filled every space.
When we arrived, it felt like time had stopped.

I remember holding his hand one last time,
feeling the warmth slowly leave.

My mind raced:
How? Why? We have a child.
How am I supposed to do this alone?

We were meant to grow old together.
I used to tell him I’d go first. I wanted to.

Now, I had lost the foundation of my past and the future we were meant to have.

The coroner took him away, and I felt myself leave my own body.

Back in my room, I shut the door,
fell to my knees,
and wept.

I don’t remember everything I said to God that night only that I begged Him to take the pain away.

For six years, Ivan had been part of my story.
Every sunrise.
Every late-night conversation.
Every road trip.
Every fight.
Every forgiveness.

He had held me through my first loss.
Now, who would I turn to?

The silence that followed was loud.
Deafening.

I was present, but I wasn’t living.

One night, desperate, I cried out:
“When will this end?”
“I can’t bear it anymore.”

And I heard it:
Redirection. This too shall pass.
And with it, a timeframe: two years.

It didn’t stop the tears.
It didn’t stop me from wishing Ivan would walk through the door.

But it gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time:
Hope.

If you know me, you know I love structure.
So the fact that God gave me a timeline still makes me smile.

I opened my countdown app.
Wrote it on my whiteboard:
Redirection. This too shall pass.

From that moment, a slow shift began.

At first, it was in my thoughts.
I didn’t think of Ivan every second of every day.

The grief didn’t disappear,
but the weight began to lift.

Around that time, I was offered therapy sessions
with a qualified CBT Therapist.

I couldn’t believe it when I found out she was a Christian.
A pastor’s kid, too.

I hadn’t asked for it.
I was barely seeing anyone beyond my in-laws and close family.
But here she was.
Wise counsel, arriving right on time.

The sessions, which should have cost hundreds, were completely covered.

They became lifelines.

She helped me ride the waves.

Therapy and Jesus go hand in hand.
You can’t ask Him to heal you
and then limit the ways He might do it.

Some days, I just wanted my old life back.

When family held Eden,
I’d picture her in Ivan’s arms.

Other days it hit out of nowhere
like flying over Queenstown, whispering
“I did it”
as I remembered the trip we once dreamed of.

And yet
Through Eden’s eyes, I began to see the world again.

Slowly, painfully, beautifully
God reshaped my heart
to carry both sorrow and joy.

The pain didn’t vanish,
but it softened.

The joy didn’t replace the grief,
but it rose beside it.

In the lead-up to our Fiji trip, I started dreaming of Ivan again.
But this time, it wasn’t tormenting.

I was saying goodbye.
Letting go.
Making space for peace.

When I woke up, I checked the date:

3 April 2025.
The anniversary of his passing.

Only God could orchestrate something so precise.

If you follow me on Facebook, you might remember the “TWO” story I shared around that time.
It wasn’t just reflection.
It was a marker.
A moment of letting go.

This blog is part of that journey too.

Like Mary Magdalene, I want to say:
“I have seen the Lord.”

I have met Him in the darkest valley.
I have felt His nearness when no one else could reach me.

And if you’re grieving, I want you to know:
He sees you.
He knows your name.
He hasn’t left.
He will meet you right where you are.

I’m not here because I have all the answers.
I’m here because I’ve seen what happens when grief meets Jesus.

I thought it was the end
But it was just the beginning.

“Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’ She turned toward him and cried out… ‘Rabboni!’ (which means Teacher).”
—John 20:16

When the Healing Looks Different: A Legacy of Love

Grief reshapes us.
Not in the way we expect,
but in a way that makes us who we are meant to be.

I was in my final year of high school when the call came.
My mum had a seizure.

Simon shouted for her,
we rushed to the front room
to find her acting completely normal.

But the panic on Simon’s face said everything.

The ambulance came.
And that was the beginning of a journey
we didn’t yet understand.

My older brother Matt stepped away from university to care for her.
He drove her to chemo
and brought her home again.

I don’t remember all the details.
I just remember that she went into remission.

She claimed healing.
And I believed her.
We all did.

For a while, it felt like we had won.
Life moved forward.
Years passed.

Then, quietly, the cancer returned.

It came back stronger this time,
pressing against parts of her brain
that affected her movement, her memory, her speech.

I was with her at the hospital when the scan results came in.
I was her translator.
I was her daughter.

I was the one who heard the news that changed everything again.

She refused surgery.
We respected her decision,
even as the consequences became clear.

Her mobility declined.
She eventually became bedridden.

And nothing truly prepares you for the shift
from being cared for
to becoming the caregiver,
especially when you’re watching someone you love
choose privacy over intervention,
and strength over control.

We believed God would heal her again.
We prayed.
We fasted.
We hoped.

But this time, the healing didn’t look like recovery.
It looked like surrender.

I watched her take her last breath.
That moment has never left me.

I wrestled with God,
“I did everything right.
And still, You took her?”

It didn’t make sense.

But He brought to mind the story of David:
how he fasted for his child,
and still the child died.
And yet, David got up.
He worshipped.
He moved forward.

And so did I.
Not all at once.
But I worshipped, even through the ache.

Because even in grief, God is still good.
Even in sorrow, He is still bigger.

Healing came slowly through time,
through wise counsel,
through quiet acceptance
of a will higher than mine.

I began to see the silver linings.
I began to trust again.

Motherhood changed everything.

Holding Eden, caring for her,
I began to feel my mum in new ways:
her gentleness in my hands,
her faith in my heart,
her presence in the stillness.

It was then I understood:
she hadn’t left me.
She had simply gone ahead.

Grief doesn’t always look like healing.
Sometimes, healing is letting go.

Sometimes, it’s trusting
that even when the outcome is different
than what we prayed for,
God is still faithful.

In the hills and valleys of motherhood,
He walks with me.

Just as He walked with my mum.
Just as He will walk with Eden.

To every mother carrying grief
while learning to give love again,

you are not alone.

There is strength in your surrender,
beauty in your breaking,
and purpose in your pain.

My journey through loss didn’t end in despair.
It unfolded into deeper love,
quiet healing,
and unshakable faith.

Our stories may hold sorrow,
but they are also marked by hope.

“Those who sow in tears
will reap with songs of joy.”
— Psalm 126:5

The Deeper Blessing: A Testimony of Grief, Grace, and God’s Faithfulness

I don’t always feel “blessed” in the way people use that word.

Not when I’ve buried love I prayed would stay.

Not when I’ve held grief in one hand, responsibility in the other, trying to be whole for someone small who needs me.

But I do know what it is to be carried.

By a God who doesn’t look away from my pain.

By promises that didn’t break, even when I did.

By peace that came softly, faithfully.

I’ve felt favour not as ease, but as presence.

In silence. In provision I never planned for.

In joy that still dared to grow in broken soil.

I know that I know that I know:

He is true to His word.

He is near to the broken-hearted.

He is near to the widow.

He is Father to the motherless.

He is faithful to the end and beyond it.

So no, I won’t say I’m blessed.

But I am sustained.

I am loved.

I am carried.

I am seen.

When my husband died, I was five months pregnant.

I stood in the wreckage of what used to be normal, holding a future I hadn’t planned for, wondering how I would survive it.

There were moments I didn’t want to.

As selfish as it sounds, I didn’t want to live in a world he no longer existed in.

The weight of grief clouded my mind. I imagined ways I could disappear without it looking like I meant to.

He wasn’t just the person I loved, he had become part of who I was.

Without him, I didn’t know how to keep going.

But God.

He met me not in loud, dramatic ways but in quiet mercy.

In the ache. In the ordinary.

In a moment I’ll never forget: when I was at my lowest, and I felt her kick.

Eden.

It was the first time I felt her move.

It stopped me.

Reminded me I wasn’t alone.

Even if I didn’t want to live for me, I could live for her.

For the life we created.

For the life God had formed.

I broke down. I asked God to forgive me. I begged Him for strength.

And somehow, He carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.

When she was born, her name suddenly made perfect sense.

We’d talked through many names before my husband passed, but after prayer, Eden stayed.

Still, I wasn’t fully convinced… until I heard her cry.

Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was grace.

But I knew her name was right.

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

He took Ivan. But He gave me Eden.

A glimpse of paradise in the midst of heartbreak.

His presence in the middle of our pain.

I still carry grief, but I also carry grace.

I’m learning to mother while mourning.

To hold space for sorrow and hope in the same breath.

Some days are still heavy. But I don’t carry them alone.

Healing didn’t come in a rush.

It came quietly.

A year and a bit later, I woke up one morning and realised I didn’t want to die anymore.

That was the shift.

That was the beginning of joy again.

Not the same joy as before.

But deeper.

Stronger.

Risen from broken soil.

And maybe that is the deeper blessing.

It reminds me of the words written in deep sorrow by the prophet Jeremiah:

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3:22–23)

These words weren’t written from comfort, but from the ashes of devastation.

And yet even there God’s mercy still held.

That’s what I’ve known, too.

In my own season of grief and loss, His love never ran out.

His faithfulness never wavered.

His mercy found me again and again.

And that’s how I’ve made it here.

Still healing. Still held.