Grief Reveals the Truth

June 27, 2025

In the Hmong community, funerals are a sacred but heavy responsibility—full of customs, cooking, and collective labor. It’s not a time for one person to carry the load; it’s a time when the entire family must come together. And in the middle of it all—between the prepping, planning, and grieving—I was struck by a truth I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life: when hard times hit, we have no one but family.

Tonight, I saw what love looks like in action. My sister-in-law Chua, along with her family who live locally in Minnesota, came out to help without hesitation. They joined my husband, brothers, and in-laws to prepare ingredients for the funeral meals, chopping up the meat from the animals they had slaughtered earlier that morning. No one waited to be asked. No one complained. Everyone labored, quietly and wholeheartedly.

That’s what it means to show up.

And showing up isn’t always loud. It’s not flashy or boastful. Sometimes it looks like doing a favor, stepping in when someone else can’t, or simply being a pair of helping hands. It means having someone’s back in their moment of need. That’s what family does. That’s what love does.

Yet even in the warmth of that support, I felt another kind of ache. My mother’s church family—those we expected to be there—never came. Only a few relatives connected to her church showed up. We were told they would help. We were told they’d be there. But as of tonight, we haven’t even received a funeral pamphlet with the agenda. We don’t know what time to tell people to come sing the special songs for my mom. It’s disappointing. And it forced me to wrestle with the hard question: What is the point of belonging to a church family if they don’t show up when it matters most?

That question took me back to my own church—True Life Church. A place that has reshaped how I view community. My pastor built this church around the concept of small groups and authentic relationships. We don’t just talk about showing up—we live it. He taught us how to do life together, and he created systems that make it possible. And as I reflect on my grief and this experience, my appreciation for his leadership has deepened in ways I didn’t expect.

Because the truth is, most people don’t know how to show up for one another. We assume others know what to do, how to help, or when to be present—but they often don’t. It’s something we have to be taught. And now more than ever, I’m grateful I’ve been part of a community that values that kind of love in action.

Tonight also brought me to another realization—one that stings a bit. I’ve been selfish in many ways. Maybe not intentionally, but in the busyness of life, I haven’t always been the one who showed up. I haven’t always made space to help carry someone else’s burden. But tonight, something shifted.

At the end of the day, love and respect are the two greatest acts we can offer to one another. Not just in words, but in deeds. In time given. In messes cleaned. In meals made. In simply being there.

This kind of love doesn’t require perfection. It just requires presence.

Grief has a way of stripping everything down. And in the midst of my sorrow, I see more clearly now the kind of person I want to be—and the kind of community I want to continue building: one that shows up, loves deeply, and respects quietly.

That’s what family does. That’s what church should do. That’s what love looks like.