4434 Boonsboro Road, Lynchburg, VA

I have spent nearly four years now writing about the places God has led me to worship, the beautiful people I have met, about joy, forgiveness, obedience, suffering, hope, and the privilege of being alive. I have written about finding Jesus in sanctuaries, cemeteries, living rooms, restaurants, and all the unexpected places where He has met me along the way.

But I never imagined that I would sit down to write Church #188 just two days after losing my precious husband, Brian Lambert.

I do not know how to write these words.

I do not know how to be in this world without him.

Today was All Saints’ Sunday, November 1, 2026, and I attended Peakland United Methodist Church, where I experienced what may have been the most difficult and meaningful worship service of my entire life. I walked into that sanctuary with grief so enormous that I can’t even comprehend it myself, and I wept throughout the service because there was simply nowhere else for all that love and sorrow to go.

My husband is gone.

Writing that sentence still feels unreal.

Brian had been under the care of multiple medical specialists as they worked to understand his rapidly declining health and the agonizing, relentless pain he had been experiencing. His medical struggles were still being investigated at UVA, and because he was an intensely private person, he did not share with many people just how badly he was suffering. He carried so much that others never saw, and out of love and respect for the man he was, there are parts of his journey that will remain private.

What I want people to know is that he was loved. He was loved beyond anything I could ever put into words. He was my husband, my family, my companion, and a part of the world my daughter and I knew how to live in. And now that world has changed.

I serve families through loss, stand beside grieving spouses, listen to stories about marriages, hold hands at gravesides, and try to offer comfort when somebody’s entire life has been rearranged by death. I have learned so much about grief through my own experiences, my work, and the beautiful people who have trusted me with their stories.

But nothing could have prepared me for this!

I do not know how to imagine the coming weeks without thinking about all the things we would have talked about. I do not know how to look toward the future without feeling the terrible absence of the person I expected to be standing beside me.

And my precious daughter’s world has collapsed in a way that breaks my heart beyond anything I can describe. As a mother, I want to reach into her sorrow and take it away. I want to protect her from every terrible feeling that comes with losing someone she loves. I want to make the world feel safe again, to restore the familiar routines, to give her back the life she knew just a few days ago.

But I can’t.

I just feel all this helplessness in being a mother who is grieving while watching her child grieve too. I want to hold her together while I am falling apart myself. I want to tell her everything will be all right, but right now I do not even know what all right is supposed to look like.

So we are doing the only thing we know to do. We are holding on to Jesus. And I believe with everything inside me that He is holding on to us, because the strength we are operating on right now is not our own.

Today, as I sat in the sanctuary at Peakland United Methodist Church, surrounded by people who extended such love and kindness, I was reminded of something I have been writing about throughout this entire journey.

The church is not simply where we gather to worship. The church is also the people who help carry us when we can no longer carry ourselves.

And today, I needed to be carried.

The service began with the beautiful traditions of worship that have become so precious to me throughout these 188 churches. The familiar hymns, the prayers, the gathering of God’s people, and the reverence of a sanctuary set apart for worship offered something steady when everything inside me felt shattered.

And then there was a story.

A simple story about a little boy that I do not believe I will ever forget.

The pastor shared how a father was explaining saints to his young son, using the beautiful stained-glass windows of a church to help him understand. The little boy looked at those windows, at the figures illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the colored glass, and when someone later asked him what a saint was, he gave an answer that was far more profound than many sermons I have heard in my lifetime.

A saint is someone the light shines through.

I can’t stop thinking about those words.

Someone the light shines through.

Someone the light shines through.

And I sat there with tears streaming down my face, thinking about Brian, about my daughter, about the people who have surrounded us with love, and about how desperately I need the light of Jesus right now.

Because I do not feel particularly strong or brave. I do not feel like the woman who has written so many sermons about overcoming adversity and trusting God through impossible circumstances. I feel like a wife who wants her husband back. I feel like a mother whose heart is breaking for her daughter. I feel like someone standing in the wreckage of a life that looked entirely different just a few days ago.

And yet, God reminded me that light does not stop being light simply because it is shining through something broken.

I have written before about the extraordinary things God has brought me through. But today, I am writing from the very bottom of the valley. I do not yet know how to survive. And perhaps that is the most honest sermon I have ever written.

Because I can tell you that I believe God is good, but I cannot tell you that I understand what has happened. I can tell you that I trust Jesus, but I cannot tell you that my heart is at complete peace with losing my husband. I can tell you that I believe in eternity, but I cannot tell you that the promise of heaven has made me stop longing for one more day with Brian. I can tell you that I know God is holding us, but I cannot tell you that I am not frightened of the days ahead.

Psalm 34:18 tells us that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted. I believe He was close when I received the news that changed my life. I believe He was close when my daughter began trying to comprehend what had happened. I believe He was close during the hours when words failed us. And I believe He was close today when I could not stop crying in the sanctuary.

But I am also learning something about the way God sometimes makes His nearness known.

He sends people.

People who offer love, prayers, kindness, and practical help. People who allow you to cry without trying to make the tears stop. And today, Peakland United Methodist Church became one of those places for me.

I cannot adequately express how grateful I am for the outpouring of love we received. The pastor personally greeted us, there was no expectation that I arrive with my grief neatly contained, and no need to pretend I was doing better than I was.

I could simply be there as a grieving wife, a heartbroken mother, a humble child of God who needed her Father’s comfort.

And then, during this beautiful All Saints’ Sunday service, a candle was lit in remembrance of Brian Lambert.

My Brian. His name. His life. His memory. Honored in a sanctuary filled with the love of Jesus.

There is something almost unbearable about hearing the name of someone you love spoken in remembrance when you are still trying to understand how they can be gone.

A few days ago, Brian was part of the life we were living. And now a candle was being lit in his memory.

How can the human heart possibly understand such a sudden change?

I watched that candle and thought about the little boy’s description of a saint. Someone the light shines through. And I thought about the ways our lives continue to touch other lives, even when our earthly time together has ended. I thought about the memories Brian leaves behind, the conversations, the laughter, the days that I would give anything to experience again. I thought about all the things that made him uniquely himself, the parts of him that belonged to our family, and the quiet struggles he carried that so few people understood. And I thought about how deeply I wish love could have spared him every moment of suffering.

We are grateful that his agonizing pain is no longer something he must endure, and we are entrusting him to the mercy and love of Jesus.

But we miss him terribly. We miss him in ways I do not yet have the language to describe. And I know there will be moments ahead when the smallest things bring the largest waves of sorrow.

I have spent so much time helping families understand that grief is love continuing after death has changed the relationship. Today I understand that in a different way. Because I have so much love for my husband, and I do not know where to put it all now.

So I am placing it all before Jesus.

All of it.

And when I cannot find the words to pray, I am trusting what Romans 8:26 tells us about the Holy Spirit helping us in our weakness, interceding when we do not know what we ought to pray. Because I do not know what to pray.

I want Brian.

I want my daughter to stop hurting.

I want to wake up and discover that this has all been some terrible misunderstanding.

And since I cannot have those things, I am asking Jesus to help us survive the reality we are facing. One hour at a time, if that is all we can manage.

Hebrews 12:1-2, the Scripture from today’s service, speaks of being surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses and running with perseverance the race set before us, keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus.

I have heard that passage many times throughout this journey. But today, I could not help thinking about what it means to keep running when you have fallen to your knees. What does perseverance look like when you can barely stand? What does faith look like when the road ahead is so painful that you cannot bear to imagine where it leads? I think perhaps perseverance looks different in seasons like this.

Maybe today it means getting out of bed. Maybe it means accepting a meal someone brings. Maybe it means allowing somebody else to handle a responsibility because you simply cannot. Maybe it means holding your daughter while you both cry. Maybe it means walking into a sanctuary and allowing the people of God to love you when you have nothing left to give in return. And maybe keeping our eyes on Jesus does not mean we never look down at the sorrow beneath our feet.

Maybe it means that when we cannot lift our heads, we trust that Jesus is still looking toward us with compassion.

I have spent so much of this journey writing about service. I have written about washing feet, making time, loving strangers, helping families, showing up, and becoming the hands and feet of Jesus wherever He places us.

And now I am discovering something that is incredibly humbling. Sometimes we are not the ones being sent to serve. Sometimes we are the ones who need to be served. I have always found it easier to give than to receive. I know how to make a meal for somebody else. I know how to offer help. I know how to listen. I know how to comfort a grieving family. But now people are asking how they can help us, and for perhaps one of the first times in my life, I am learning to say yes.

Yes, please pray for us. Yes, we could use help. Yes, we are overwhelmed. Yes, my daughter and I need people around us. And no, we do not have the strength to do everything ourselves right now.

I think about Galatians 6:2, which tells us to carry one another’s burdens and in doing so fulfill the law of Christ. I have spent years trying to help carry other people’s burdens. Now the body of Christ is helping carry ours. And I am so grateful.

Because I do not believe God created us to endure devastating loss in isolation. I believe He gave us one another. He gave us people who can pray when we cannot form a sentence. People who can make decisions when our minds are overwhelmed. People who can bring food when eating feels impossible. People who can sit quietly when there is nothing left to say. And people who can remind us that we are loved when grief has made the world feel unbearably lonely.

Today, the congregation at Peakland United Methodist Church showed me what that love looks like. And I will never forget it.

There was another part of the service that made me pause. The anthem was Peace Like a River, with its beautiful themes of peace, faith, hope, and love. And I sat there thinking about how desperately I wanted to feel peace!!!

I am asking Him for the peace only He can give.

And perhaps that is what I want people to understand most about Church #188.

I am not writing this because I have found a beautiful explanation for why my husband died. I have not. I am not writing this because I believe every tragedy needs to be turned into a lesson. Some things are simply heartbreaking, and I do not believe we honor God by pretending otherwise.

I am writing because I have spent 188 weeks telling you where Jesus has met me, and I cannot stop telling you all now simply because I have reached the darkest chapter of it.

Today, Jesus met me in a sanctuary where I could not stop crying. He met me through a pastor who greeted us with kindness. He met me through a congregation that surrounded us with love. He met me through a little boy’s story about stained-glass windows. He met me through the lighting of a candle for my husband. And He met me through the people who have reached toward my daughter and me with compassion when we have needed it most.

I have often written that we are the church. I was reminded that the church is also a place where broken people should be able to come without pretending they are whole. A place where tears are welcome. Where names are remembered. Where love continues beyond the grave. And where people who have no strength left can lean upon the faith and compassion of others.

That is what Peakland gave us today.

When we speak someone’s name, share their stories, remember their kindness, and honor the life they lived, we acknowledge that death has changed our relationship with them, but it has not erased the significance of their existence.

Brian was here. He was loved. He is loved.

I have said before that we spend our lives becoming memories in the hearts of other people. I never imagined how soon I would be learning to live inside those words myself. Love does not suddenly disappear when the person we love is no longer physically beside us. It remains. And sometimes it hurts more than we ever imagined anything could hurt.

But I would not trade the love I have for Brian simply to escape the pain of missing him.

He is part of my heart. He is part of my daughter’s heart. And while we are learning how to live in a world without his physical presence, we will carry his memory and the love we shared with him into every chapter that follows.

I have often spoken about heaven throughout this church journey, particularly because my work surrounds me with reminders of how brief our earthly lives can be. But heaven feels different to me today. It is no longer only a promise I think about while comforting another grieving family. It is a hope I am clinging to while my own heart is breaking.

The pastor’s sermon was titled When We Cross That River, and I thought about how often in the Bible we see the imagery of crossing through waters, walking into places we have never been, and trusting God when the way forward is hidden from our sight. I feel as though I am standing at the edge of a river I never wanted to cross. I cannot see the other side. I do not know what the coming days will require. I do not know how to help my daughter find her footing when I can barely find my own.

But I know the God who led Israel through the Jordan. I know the God who walked with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego through the furnace. I know the God who shut the mouths of lions. I know the God who has carried me through every other impossible chapter of my life.

And although I have never needed Him quite like I need Him now, I believe He is still the same God!

My mind keeps coming back to that little boy looking at the stained-glass windows.

Someone the light shines through.

I wonder what he would have thought if he had seen me today, sitting in that sanctuary, crying so hard I could barely participate in the service. Would he have recognized any light in me at all? I hope so. Even in my brokenness, I was still reaching for Jesus. And perhaps the light shining through us does not always look like joy.

I do not have a sermon about how to overcome this grief. But, I have a testimony that Jesus has not left me alone inside it. That is all I can offer today.

I want to thank everyone at Peakland United Methodist Church for welcoming us into your sanctuary. Thank you for lighting a candle in memory of my precious husband, Brian Lambert. You may never fully understand what that meant to me, but I will carry the memory of that moment for the rest of my life.

To everyone who has followed this journey, prayed for my family, encouraged us, and loved us through so many different seasons, I am asking you now to please keep praying. Pray for my daughter. Pray for her broken heart. Pray that she will feel the presence of Jesus in ways that words cannot accomplish. Pray that God will protect her, comfort her, and give her hope when the future feels impossible to imagine. Please pray for Mike and Molly Lambert, Brian’s parents, who have lost part of their heart and world. And, after those prayers, please whisper a small one for me.

Please pray that God will continue surrounding us with people who will help carry what we cannot. Please pray that we will be able to receive that love. And please pray that, in time, we will find ways to experience joy again without feeling that joy somehow diminishes how deeply we loved Brian. Because I know that the road ahead will be long. I know grief will not disappear when the flowers fade or when the calls and messages become less frequent. I know there will be birthdays, holidays, mornings, and countless moments when his absence will feel unbearable all over again. And I know that my daughter and I will need grace for each of those moments.

But I also know that the God who has carried me through 188 churches has not suddenly stopped being faithful. I know He is still good. I know He still loves us. I know He sees every tear. And I know He is not asking us to face tomorrow before tomorrow comes.

Today, we only have to get through today.

And if all we can do is cry, pray, hold one another, and allow other people to love us, then that is what we will do.

I do not know where the Holy Spirit will lead me next week. I can barely imagine what next week will look like. I do not know what church will look like. I do not know how I will feel. I do not know whether I will have the words to write again. But if God gives me another Sunday, I will trust Him to meet me there.

Because He met me today. In the darkest hour of my life. In a sanctuary filled with love. In the middle of tears I could not stop. And in the gentle glow of a candle lit for Brian.

A saint is someone the light shines through. And today, I am praying that even though my heart has been shattered, the love of Jesus will somehow continue shining through what remains.

Jesus, who has held me through every chapter of my life, is holding my daughter and me now. And I am trusting Him not to let go.

Church #188 — Peakland United Methodist Church. In loving memory of my precious husband, Brian Dennis Lambert.

I love you, Brian. I miss you beyond words. And I will carry you in my heart for every day God gives me. Until then, Jesus, please hold us close. We need You more than words can say.