If you’ve read my Becoming Martina series, you’ve heard about the great tragedies that stormed my life in 2019 and again in 2021. For those who haven’t, those were the years two of my nephews—two brothers, two beloved boys—took their own lives.

Josiah, that sweet baby I once held at birth, was gone. And not even two years later, Jaden his brother followed. It was devastating in a way words struggle to hold.

Both times, I wasn’t there the night it happened, 1000 miles away. But my sister—their mother—was there, not even hours after it happened. She’s the one who had to identify their remains. My chest aches even now as I write this. I can’t begin to imagine her pain. It hurts too bad to even try.

Grief is strange like that. When someone you love dies suddenly, you want to reach for them—maybe out of disbelief, maybe hoping they’ll wake up, maybe just to feel their warmth one last time. That longing sits in your bones.

I remember my sister telling me that after they passed, she went to a local Catholic church. She found herself in front of a statue of Mary—the one where she’s holding the body of her crucified Son. She sat and wept there.

And today—on September 15—we honor Our Lady of Sorrows.

Mary, the Mother of God. The one who was given a promise by an angel. Who birthed the Christ. Nursed Him. Reared Him. Taught Him. Loved Him—not just as a mother, but as a faithful servant.

She watched Him die.

Not just die—but be mocked, betrayed, beaten, and murdered. All while knowing He was the promised One. Can you imagine the faith it took to stand there at the foot of that cross and not look away?

How do you keep believing when the promise is bleeding out in front of you?

After we lost my second nephew, my husband was diagnosed with cancer. We didn’t know what would happen. My sister, already drowning in grief, broke at the thought of losing him too.

She told me once that she tried to pray for Siafa, but it hurt too much to speak. The only words she could manage were:

“Abba. Siafa.”

Two words. That’s it.

But I knew what she meant.

“Father, here is Your son, Siafa. My brother. Heal him.”

And I believe the Lord heard her. I believe He answered.

That moment changed me. It taught me that when we don’t know what to pray, the Spirit prays for us. That God Himself will put the words on our lips.

Those two words—spoken from the heart of a woman acquainted with many sorrows—have strengthened my faith more times than I can count.

And I believe that Mary—Our Lady of Sorrows—does the same for us.

She weeps for us. She holds our grief in her mantle. She speaks our names to her Son.

She prays when we can’t.

So today, we remember her sorrow. We remember her strength. And we remember that in every moment of aching silence, heaven is still listening.

Our Blessed Mother of Sorrows, pray for us.

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Thank you for joining me today, I’m glad you’re here.

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