Finding Joy After the Storm: A Mother’s Heart at Christmas

Dear Friends, I am writing to share an update following the loss of our home this fall.

This year, as Christmas approaches, I find myself standing in the quiet aftermath of a storm—both literal and emotional. In Florida, hurricanes are no strangers to us, but this one was different. It wasn’t just the wind that howled or the rain that poured relentlessly from the sky. It was the floodwaters that surged into our home, washing away so much of what we had built and cherished. This Christmas, the holiday season feels heavier than ever, and yet, I am still searching—searching for the strength to turn this pain into joy.

As a mother, Christmas has always been about family—gathering together, sharing love, creating memories. I’d decorate the house with the joy of anticipation, pulling out ornaments that carried years of tradition, baking cookies, and setting a table with room for everyone. Our home was more than just a building; it was the heart of our family. The walls echoed with laughter, the floors held the steps of my children running to and fro, and the kitchen was a place where we nurtured not just our bodies but our relationships.

But now, as I look at the empty space where our home once stood, I feel the ache of loss deep in my chest. The rooms that once held our Christmas tree, stockings, and the aroma of cinnamon rolls now stand bare. The memories, the traditions, the dreams we built—everything is submerged in the floodwaters, swept away in the chaos of the storm.

I’ve spent countless nights lying awake, heartbroken over what was lost. The decorations that didn’t survive the flood. The gifts of time and love we can no longer give in the way we once did. The painful reality of starting over weighs heavily on my spirit. But despite the sorrow, there is one thing that remains: hope.

As a Christian mother, I know that even in the hardest of times, God’s promise of joy and peace is unshaken. I may not have a house to call home this Christmas, but I still have His presence—and in that, I find my strength. The Bible tells us in 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”

This verse has been my anchor. Though the flood took away much, it did not take my faith. The grief is real, but so is His comfort. I know that the God of all comfort is close to the brokenhearted. And though this season feels different—so much harder than any Christmas I’ve experienced—I am reminded that Christmas is not about the things we have, but about the Savior we celebrate.

I think about the first Christmas—the night Jesus was born in a humble manger, surrounded by nothing more than straw and animals. There were no grand celebrations, no shining decorations, and certainly no cozy home. Yet, in that simplicity, the greatest gift the world has ever known was given. That tiny baby brought hope, salvation, and peace, not just for that night, but for every season to come.

And so, this year, I’m choosing to focus on what has not been lost: the love of Christ, the love of my family, and the love we share with each other. Yes, we’re rebuilding. Yes, there’s pain. But in this rebuilding, I see God’s hand at work, shaping us into something stronger, more compassionate, and more resilient than we ever could have imagined.

This Christmas, our tree may not be as tall as it once was, and there may not be presents piled high under it. But I have my children, and I have the promise that we are still a family, still bound together by love and by God’s faithfulness. I can’t gather everyone in the same way this year, but I can gather my heart in thanksgiving for the blessings that remain. I can gather my spirit in worship of the One who came to bring light to the darkness, peace in the storm, and joy in the midst of sorrow.

The road ahead will be long, and the journey of rebuilding will take time. But I believe that this loss can become a gift. There is a deep joy that is born not from the things we hold in our hands, but from the things that cannot be taken away—the love of God, the strength of His presence, and the comfort of knowing that He is with us, even in the hardest seasons.

So, as I stand here this Christmas, surrounded by the rubble of what once was, I hold onto the truth that joy is not found in circumstances—it is found in the presence of the Savior who came for us all. This Christmas, I am choosing to see beyond the pain. I am choosing to allow the love of Christ to fill the empty spaces, and I am trusting that the joy He offers will be enough to heal the wounds and transform this Christmas into something beautiful.

The floodwaters may have taken my home, but they cannot take my joy. That, I will fight for. And I will find it—this Christmas and every Christmas to come.

Praying that you will fight for your joy this Christmas – in less than perfect conditions, in the aftermath of failed relationships, in the pain of suffering and grief, in the hope that loved ones are now in heaven, in the financial ups and downs, in the diagnosis pending and active, in the hope for a new and better home here on earth.

Blessings to you – Tracey