Today marks eight years.
Eight years since our beautiful daughter, Lumé, left our arms and stepped into eternity. Eight years since we last heard her voice, saw her sparkle, felt her warmth. She is, and always will be, 11 forever — etched into the deepest parts of our hearts.
And yet, I still struggle to wrap my head around it.
Eight years is a long time to be without someone you love so much. This morning, I sat quietly and asked myself: What would life have looked like if Lumé were still here? And then the other question followed: How has it changed because she’s not?
But life without her… it has changed us. Not always in ways that show on the outside, but profoundly on the inside. Grief is a strange thing. We’ve been shaped, softened, and deepened by her absence. We live differently in many ways—not by choice, but by grace. Because of Lumé, we live from a more eternal place.
We live deeper. We love louder. We hold tighter. We hope harder.
In these eight years, I’ve come to know something I never understood as deeply before: Heaven.
Oh, Heaven. What a dream it has become.
We always knew it existed, but now it’s personal. Now it holds someone we love. Well, actually more loved ones like my dad and mom. And that changes everything. It’s no longer just a place we read about—it’s the place our daughter calls home. And what comforts me most is this: the death of a believer is not a loss, it’s a celebration. A beginning. A homecoming.
I see Lumé in my mind’s eye— doing what she loved most on earth - dancing, singing, radiant. I imagine her sitting with Jesus, tucked into His lap as He tells her stories. Maybe they’re about us. Maybe she’s telling Him our stories too. And I smile, because I know she’s happy. She’s safe. Whole. Loved in the purest way. And free—free from the pain and fears of this broken world.
That helps. It really does.
But I also know that our human flesh doesn't understand death. It fights it. It mourns. It aches. That’s the hard part. Our spirits whisper truth, but our hearts still break. And so we carry our crosses daily.
There’s a photo we took of Lumé one magical night at Disneyland Paris. The Disney castle lit up the sky with a spectacular show. She was in absolute awe—her face frozen in wonder, amazement, joy. I often think of that moment. Because if that was her reaction to the work of human hands, I can only imagine what her face must have looked like the moment she entered the presence of God. If Disney left her mesmerized, Heaven must have left her breathless.
And every single day since must feel like that first moment of divine wonder. After all, it’s the masterpiece of the Creator of all creativity. The One who imagined stars, oceans, laughter, color, and love… also imagined a place for us. And our little girl is already there.
I miss Lumé. Deeply. Fiercely. There are days I deliberately try not to think about her. Months, I avoid visiting her gravestone. As if not facing the pain will soften the blow. But it never really works, does it? Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t go away when ignored. So I pick up my cross again, and I carry it.
Because this journey—this suffering—has not been in vain.
As painful as it is, it is shaping something in me. Something eternal. I remind myself of Jesus’s words in John 16:33:
“I have said these things to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.”
I don’t understand many things. I probably never will. But I believe that God is using this cross—this heartbreak—for His purpose in me. He is not finished. The One who made my heart will finish what He started.
Legacy of Love was born out of this journey. And every year, every step, every tear and triumph, is proof that grief doesn’t end a story—it begins a new chapter. One written in compassion, shaped by eternity, and held together by grace.
If you're reading this and carrying your own loss, may you find comfort in knowing: you are not alone. Our flesh may not understand, but our spirits whisper truth. Love doesn’t die. And neither do we. Not really.
We are, all of us, just walking each other home.
So today, as we mark eight years, I renew my focus. I remain determined. I will carry this love, this loss, and this legacy with me until the day I get to hold my little girl again.
And oh, what a celebration that will be.
