The loss of a child is a devastating grief.
Mothers often grieve silently. If we have other living children, our lives are still full with their needs. If we do not, the world does not see us as a mother. Either way, we are often urged—even by well-meaning friends or family—to keep our grief quiet and hidden.
But our love is enormous.
So we cry in the shower or wail into the closet. We mourn alone: in the car, on a run, in the pew or at the grave. We learn to put on a bright face, because the world cheers bravery. We rarely get the chance to sit with our grief and stare it full in the face.
To learn from the lessons our love still waits to teach us.
To bring our whole selves to God—in love, in anger, in doubt, in hope.
To discover more of the mystery of faith within the pain and paradox of loss.
To honor the holy, hard, heartbreaking truth that we will always be a mother of the child we lost, even if no one else knows their name.
Over the years I have listened to countless stories of motherlove and loss. I wanted to create a space for grieving mothers to come together and remember they are not alone. A place of prayer for those who have wrestled with God in the afterpains of deep grief.
The Oasis Retreat is born of love and loss. If you have lost a child—as a baby before birth, as an infant, in childhood, or in adulthood—you are welcome here, whether their death was recent or long ago.
From May 1-2 we’ll gather virtually to pray, reflect, and connect with each other, with our children, and with God. Sessions will be recorded so you can do the retreat on your own time (with the e-book as guide) to make it fit your life. Learn more here.
Thanks to the generous support of friends and strangers alike, scholarships are available. You can also give the retreat as a gift. This Oasis is here for all who need it.
a cool and calm refuge, respite from the heat of grief and the road of loss.
a protection from the scorching sun of others’ forced optimism.
a source of fresh water, both ancient and ever-new as God’s love.
a spring for your thirst. the possibility of refreshment and restoration.
a site of greenery and growth, shelter from the dry desert of loneliness.
a place to pause, not to stay but to sojourn.
a spot to sit and rest, to keep ourselves from rushing ahead.
a surprising discovery: the prospect of hope within the desert of grief.
a meeting ground of companions: a place to find others crossing the same wilderness.
a space for conversation: a crossroads to connect, sharing wisdom from the journey.
a healing, restorative memory for when you must return to the road.
a promise of providence: if you found a place like this once, it can happen again.