A Christian Mother’s Testimony of Grief, Faith and Healing

Friend, I never thought I’d write something like this.

In October 2024, I lost my Mama. She went in for an open-heart surgery, and though we prayed, hoped, and believed… she didn’t make it. That was the hardest day of my life.

Not even a year later, in July 2025, my Papa followed her into eternity. He simply laid down to rest and never woke up.

I was thousands of miles away in the US, pregnant with my second child, having a peaceful breakfast with my toddler in my arms when I received the news—the same way I had with Mama—through a phone call.

My husband and I rushed to book flights, he carried our child through airports and flight delays, while I carried the pain and broken pieces of my heart all over again.

It felt cruel. It felt unbearable.

A wound that was only starting to mend suddenly felt ripped wide open again.

Grief felt like surgery without anesthesia.

And yet—this is also my testimony: God never left me in the storm.

And through it all, I found that grief can become a sacred space where faith and healing begin to grow.

This is not the testimony of a strong woman. It’s the testimony of a broken daughter, a grieving mother, and a tired soul who learned that even when my heart shattered, God’s presence never left me.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”

(Psalm 23:4)

(Friend, if you’re are walking in grief right now, please pause, take a deep breath, and remind yourself: God is with You. My prayer is that my story gives you comfort—not because it takes the pain away, but because it points you to the One who carries us through it.)

When the First Storm Hit: Losing Mama

I still remember that day. It was a sunny Monday in California and I was having a peaceful breakfast with my 10-month old baby girl. My husband had gone out to get an oil change, and I decided to FaceTime my sister in Maryland to talk about Mama’s surgery.

We were so hopeful. The night before, Papa told us Mama had woken up after surgery and even gave a thumbs-up. That made us all believe she was on her way to recovery.

After all, we know our Mama—she’s a fighter.

Our happy conversation was interrupted when our younger brother called. It was 1:00 a.m. in the Philippines. He told us the hospital had called—Mama’s heart had stopped, and they were trying to revive her.

Papa and my brother rushed to the hospital while my sister and I started praying the rosary. I even used the one Mama had given me. I was crying, mumbling prayers, waiting for a miracle. We believed Mama would fight through.

When they arrived in the hospital, we got in a group call again. There was a doctor explaining things to Papa. I remember him saying that he is starting to have a bad feeling. He was pounding his heart and was panicking. He kept on saying, “Hindi ko alam ang gagawin ko.“ (“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”)

After an hour, the doctors told us the words we never wanted to hear: Mama didn’t make it.

Seeing Papa weep over the phone broke me. He was always calm, but that night, he was a husband losing his wife—and we, his children, were losing our mother.

I can vividly remember when Papa and my brother went inside the room, and I saw Mama covered in a red blanket. Lifeless.

It felt so unreal, just seeing everything through the phone.

What hurt most was not being there to hold her hand one last time.

I wanted to embrace her one more time but I’m so far away.

I promised her not too long ago that we already have plans to visit Philippines soon but now we found ourselves booking the first available flight home.

That trip felt so long, especially knowing that Mama is no longer at home waiting for us to arrive.

Flying home for her funeral was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I carried my baby in my arms while my own heart was in pieces. And yet, love gave me strength I didn’t know I had.

In those days, I clung to this promise:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

(Psalm 34:18)

Mama wasn’t just my mother. She was my mentor, my number one supporter, my safe place. She’s the wind beneath my wings. I can describe her like a mother bird who taught me how to fly high and go get my dreams. She watches me from afar, very proud of whatever I achieve. And every now and then when I get tired flapping my wings and I need rest, she is there in our nest,  waiting patiently and proudly for me to come home.

Coming home without my Mama and her stories and laughter was so soul-crushing. I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel brave. Most days, I would just cry continuously. But looking back, I see how God carried me. He sent friends to check in, relatives to pray, and strangers whose words of kindness reminded me that heaven was real and that Mama was finally home with Him.

In that season of loss, faith and healing came quietly—through every prayer whispered, every tear shed, and every reminder that God was still near.

(Maybe you’ve also lost someone you dearly love. If so, I want to tell you: your tears matter to God. He sees each one.)

✨ This is why I began journaling during my grief. Writing out my raw prayers helped me survive those nights when I didn’t know what to say. It became my pathway to faith and healing, one honest page at a time. If you’d like to try it too, I have a free Daily Prayer Journal—a space where you can pour out your prayers, gratitude, and even your tears. It’s been such a comfort for me, and I’d love for it to bless you too.

When the Second Storm Hit: Losing Papa

Just as our family was slowly healing, Papa was gone too.

It was July—rainy and stormy in the Philippines especially in my hometown, Baguio City. I remember chatting with Papa about the constant rain and power interruptions. That Friday night, I saw him online on Messenger and called. He told me he had just fetched my brother from the bus terminal. We had a quick, sweet chat—my daughter blew him kisses and waved goodnight.

His last words were, “Bye Eevee. Matutulog muna si Lolo.” (“Bye Eevee. Lolo will just get some sleep.”)

Who would’ve thought that would be our last conversation.

I was having my breakfast that Saturday morning after playing with my toddler. She’s been very happy that morning. She wore some “Happy birthday” headband and her cute infant socks. I was able to get very cute photos of her.

It was a beautiful day.

I also started reading a novel that was set in 1892 Philippines. It happened that one of the characters is named Juanito, which is Papa’s name.

That morning, I was so enthusiastic about the novel and even messaged my sister about the name Juanito. She asked me if I would name my child Juanito if it’s a boy. I even laughed and said, “Probably not.” I always thought Papa’s name is so old.

Then my brother called, panicked. “Ate, si Papa. Umalis lang ako sandali.” (“Big sister, it’s about Papa. I just went out for a while.”

At first, I didn’t get it. I was confused.

Then my brother started explaining that Papa is not breathing anymore.

My brother was trying to pump Papa’s chest but his body was already cold.

My heart froze. It felt like ice water poured over my head.

No. Not again.

I tried to help him think through the panic—call 911, call our uncles, get help. But deep down, I knew.

It was the same nightmare all over again. The same phone call. Those same tears. That same pain of being too far away.

This time, I was pregnant—carrying life while carrying grief. Holding my toddler in one arm, my unborn child in my womb, and a sorrow so heavy I thought I wouldn’t survive.

I felt sorry that he would not see my Papa anymore.

How much more miserable can life be?

It felt cruel. Like one wave after another crashing on the same fragile shore. I kept asking God, “Why? Why both? Why so close?”

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

Psalm 73:26

According to my brother, Papa wasn’t feeling well that day. He said he just needed to rest. That night, he never woke up.

It was so heavy to take in. Papa did not want to bother anyone. He must be hurting physically and still emotionally because of Mama’s passing but she never showed it.

Papa passed away peacefully in his sleep. He was a man of quiet strength—never showy with words, but always present. He picked us up from school, waited for us at bus stations even in the middle of the night, and never complained.

Our Papa showed love through service and presence. Losing him felt like losing our anchor.

But I take comfort knowing he is with Mama now. I imagine Jesus—and Mama—welcoming him home.

God gently reminded me that sorrow and strength can coexist—and that through His grace, faith and healing are possible, even in heartbreak.

(If you feel like you’re carrying too much right now, please know: you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. God will help you.)

💌 Writing helped me process the pain and find peace again. That’s why I created The Faithful Woman’s Growth Bundle—10 faith-building resources that helped me walk from heartbreak to hope, nurturing faith and healing one page at a time. It includes devotionals, journals, and ebooks to guide you in prayer, grief, and rebuilding faith.

When Faith Felt Fragile

Losing one parent is like having the ground shift beneath your feet. Losing both feels like your entire world has crumbled.

Friend, can I be real with you?

There were days I didn’t want to pray. Days I whispered, “Why, God? Why both? Why now?” Days I felt like I couldn’t be a good mother while grieving as a daughter.

And I felt so weak. So unspiritual.

But then I remembered this one simple verse: “Jesus wept.”

In that verse, I found both faith and healing—the assurance that God understands every tear and still meets us with compassion.

Even Jesus—the Son of God—cried when He lost a friend. Tears don’t mean you lack faith. They mean you’re human.

There were nights my only prayer was one word: “Help.” And Romans 8:26 reminded me that even when we don’t know what to pray, the Holy Spirit intercedes for us with groans too deep for words.

Friend, your weakness doesn’t scare God. It draws Him closer.

Encountering God in the Storm

In the middle of my grief, I discovered something: storms don’t always mean the absence of God. Sometimes, storms are where His presence feels the closest.

I expected answers. But He gave me Himself.

God showed up in the quiet of the night when I couldn’t sleep. He showed up in the laughter of my daughter who reminded me there was still life to live. He showed up in Scripture, where every promise felt written just for me.

“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.”

Psalm 46:1

God showed up through people. Friends sent meals, messages, and prayers.

God showed up through peace I can’t explain. On the plane to Papa’s funeral, I was drowning in tears. Yet in the middle of it, there was stillness—as if God whispered, “I’m here, and I will always be here with you.”

And slowly, I realized: my testimony is not about how quickly I healed or how strong I was. My testimony is about how faithful God has been. I have peace in my heart that my parents are smiling down on me from heaven.

In every page I journaled and every candle I lit, I saw how faith and healing intertwine—how God rebuilds our hearts not by removing the storm, but by sitting with us in it.

(Friend, even if you don’t “feel” Him right now, please trust—He is there, closer than your breath.)

💌If you’d like a companion for your journey, you can download my free Daily Prayer Journal to begin pouring your heart out to God. Or, for deeper guidance, The Faithful Woman’s Growth Bundle offers structured devotionals, journals, and ebooks to walk you from grief to hope—one prayer, one page, one promise at a time.

From the Valley to Hope

If you are reading this through tears, know that you are not alone.

Your tears are prayers. Your whispers are worship. And your story is not over.

I still cry for Mama and Papa. I still wish I could call them. But I hold on to this hope: they are with Jesus. And because of Him, death is not the end.

So I will keep walking. I will keep praying. I will keep parenting. I will keep telling this story—not because I am strong, but because God is strong.

And if you’re in the storm right now, let me say this to you: hold on. God hasn’t left you. He is holding you even now.

• Let yourself cry. Tears are prayers too.
• Lean on others. God sends comfort through people. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.
• Write it down. Journaling helped untangle what felt impossible to carry.
• Light a candle. For me, candles became little symbols of prayer—tiny flames reminding me of the Light that darkness cannot overcome.

“Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning.”

Psalm 30:5

So if you’re grieving, may your story also become one of faith and healing—proof that even in loss, God is still writing something beautiful.

Take one small step today. Light a candle. Say a one-word prayer. Write one messy sentence in your journal. Whatever it is, God will meet you there.

(One day, friend, the morning will come for you too. Until then, let’s walk this road together with Jesus.)