A Testimony on Hope in the Face of Death and Loss
What Hope Means to Me
Hope, for me, is not the absence of darkness — it is the small light that refuses to be extinguished even when surrounded by darkness. It’s the assurance that love is stronger than death, that meaning persists beyond our understanding, and that we are held by something far greater than ourselves.
When I was 37, I lost my father unexpectedly to a tragic accident. He was only 61. In the weeks that followed, I felt as though I was drowning in a sea of grief, desperately seeking any sign that life still held meaning.
The world continued around me — people went to work, children played, the sun rose and set — but I existed in a gray space where nothing seemed to matter. I was quite certain I would never see my mother smile again. There was such a deep and profound sadness that even though my entire family gathered together, there remained such a void, such loss — a sense of being utterly alone. I was angry toward God.
Hope Revealed Through Others
It was in this darkness that hope began to reveal itself through the actions of others. Soon after his death, extended family and friends began to gather. People arrived with food, toilet paper and Kleenex, a listening ear and support in any way possible. There was an outpouring of cards and phone calls, flowers and words of comfort. My friends and work colleagues reached out to let me know they were there for me. The presence of these many individuals reminded us that we were not alone in our suffering.
Hundreds of people came to my father’s visitation, waiting for hours to show their support. They too were grieving the loss of a great man who had touched so many lives. We heard stories we’d never heard before: childhood adventures, dreams and fears, and comical things my dad did to brighten others’ days. Through their words, my father lived again — not as a memory frozen in time, but as a continuing presence in the love he had planted in others.
My Own Choice to Hope
But hope required something from me too. I had to make the difficult choice to remain open to it. There were mornings when staying in bed felt easier than facing another day. There were moments when bitterness seemed more natural than gratitude. Yet something within me — perhaps planted by my father’s example of resilience — whispered that I could choose differently.
My personal experience with grief led me to help women I served while working with Sister Georganne Burr and Father Al Stangl at Birthline, a crisis pregnancy center, heal from their losses. My experiences with grief eventually took me down a path of working in the hospice field, where today I serve as executive director of Quiet Oaks Hospice House. There I have the privilege to journey alongside those who are dying and to support their families. I believe my life’s pathway has been shaped by my own grief journey, and the hope I was given along the way now serves as an inspiration and gift that I can extend to others.
Spiritual Influences
Throughout this journey, my faith became both a rock and a refuge. There were times when I could not pray with words, so I sat in silence, letting my brokenness speak its own language to God. I found comfort in Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 and in Psalm 23 — not because they promised easy answers, but because they acknowledged that there is a larger divine plan, and that even in the valley of the shadow of death, we are not abandoned.
I began to understand that hope is not about knowing how the story ends but about trusting in whose hands hold the story. My father’s death taught me that love creates something imperishable — that every act of kindness, every moment of connection, every prayer offered becomes part of an eternal tapestry that death cannot unravel.
Hope as Gift and Responsibility
What I have learned is that hope in the face of death and loss is both gift and responsibility. It is gift because it comes to us through grace — through the unexpected kindness of strangers, through the persistent love of friends, through the quiet presence of the Divine in our darkest moments. It is responsibility because we are called to become hope for others who walk through their own valleys.
Our Call to Hope
Today, more than 20 years later, I carry my father’s death with me — not as a wound, but as a blessing. His death taught me that hope does not mean the absence of sorrow — it means the presence of love that is stronger than sorrow. It means choosing each day to believe that our lives matter, that our connections are eternal, and that even in endings, God is writing new beginnings.
In this Jubilee Year of Hope, may we remember that hope is not a feeling we wait to receive, but a light we choose to kindle for one another. May we trust that in our darkest moments, we are held, we are loved, and we are never, ever alone.
Linda Allen
Linda Allen is the executive director of Quiet Oaks Hospice House, a residential hospice house in St. Augusta, Minn. She shared this testimony during a Gratitude Prayer Service at Saint Benedict’s Monastery on August 13, 2025.
This article was featured on pages 4-5 in the winter 2026 issue of Remember
