Finding Faith and Joy in the Midst of Loss

By Jonathan Lumamba, M.A

Last weekend, my daughter Sofia and I were given the grace to attend the funeral of my dear friend Paul J. Kim’s son, Micah, in Austin, Texas. Micah was only five years old, and his passing on December 31 left a profound sorrow in all who knew him.

I give highlight to God’s grace intentionally, because flying to attend a funeral is never easy. There is something heavy about traveling when you know sorrow awaits at your destination. The last time I did that was twelve years ago, when I flew to the Philippines to bury my own father. Trips like that always carry a particular ache, a quiet sadness mixed with love, memory, and a reminder that our life here on earth is short and fragile, and that true life awaits us in heaven.

We attended the vigil service, the Funeral Mass, and the burial. It was hard to see Paul and his wife Maggie, especially watching their five-year-old son being laid to rest. Like Paul, I am a father, and as a father, I honestly cannot imagine the pain of losing a child so young. And yet, what we experienced during those days was strangely different. It was a unique funeral experience that showed faith, hope, and God’s grace even in deep loss.

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Faith That Was Real

There were three things that stood out to me, three reasons why this became one of the most beautiful funerals I have ever attended, despite the grief.

First, we witnessed Paul and Maggie’s faithfulness to the Lord. Their faith was natural and true in which you knew they were deeply rooted in friendship with God. It was real. They were hurting, but they were hopeful. Broken, yet surrendered. In the middle of unimaginable loss, they entrusted their son completely to God. As the Church teaches, “For the Christian, death is not the end, but the passage to eternal life” (CCC 1681). That kind of faith does not suddenly appear in moments of crisis; it is formed through years of daily choosing Jesus, trusting Him not just as Lord and Judge, but as Savior and Friend.

Sofia quietly wept throughout the services. Last summer, our families spent time together in California and Austin. Our kids grew close. They became pen pals. Micah was not a stranger to her; he was like a little brother. Sofia wanted to be there, and I’m grateful she was. It was painful, but it also became a moment of deep formation for her heart, a living lesson that our love and our grief belong in God’s hands.

Watching Paul and Maggie helped me reflect on something deeper: how do we overcome fear, especially the fear of death? Not by denying it. Not by pretending it doesn’t hurt. But by knowing Jesus personally. When Christ is not just an idea, but a real Savior and an intimate Friend, fear no longer has the same power. Scripture reminds us, “Perfect love casts out fear” (1 Jn 4:18). We all carry fears- for our health, our jobs, our marriages, our children’s faith, and ultimately, our own death. But God’s love is stronger than all of those fears, stronger even than death itself. As Jesus tells us, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live” (Jn 11:25). Faith in that promise becomes light- a light that overcomes the darkness, even if it starts as a small flame.

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Carrying a Casket, Carried by Hope

Second, I had the privilege of carrying Micah’s casket.

I expected it to feel unbearably heavy. And yes, it was heartbreaking. But strangely, it also felt victorious.

As Catholics, we do not pretend death is painless. We mourn. Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of Lazarus (John 11:35). But we also believe death does not have the final word.

Micah was baptized. Through Baptism, he was united to Christ’s death and resurrection (Rom 6:3–5). The Church teaches that children who die before reaching the age of reason, especially those who are baptized, are entrusted completely to the mercy of God, and we have strong hope for their salvation (CCC 1261).

That small body we carried was sacred. It had been claimed by Christ, washed in the waters of Baptism, nourished by prayer, love, and faith. That body now rests, but it is not abandoned. We believe what we profess in the Creed: “I look forward to the resurrection of the dead.” Micah’s soul is alive with the Lord, and at the end of time, his body will rise again, glorified.

Jesus promises us:
“I will raise him up on the last day” (John 6:44). That promise was not abstract for me in that moment. It was real. Tangible. Hope-filled.

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Joy That Death Could Not Steal

Third, we encountered true joy, not the absence of sorrow, but joy that existed within it.

This Funeral Mass felt less like an ending and more like a retreat, a moment of deep grace. Every Catholic funeral should be like this: rooted in the Paschal Mystery, honest about grief, yet overflowing with hope in the Resurrection. Even Sofia shared that she felt inspired and renewed. She was sad, but strengthened. I remember telling her, half-joking but fully serious, “When my time comes someday, make sure my funeral looks like this, full of hope, faith, and joy.”

During the vigil, priests were hearing confessions everywhere. Grace was overflowing. In that sacred moment, we were reminded that the Church on earth is united with the Church in heaven, and God’s mercy is close at hand (cf. CCC 954–955; Heb 12:22–24; Jn 20:22–23; CCC 1422). Even before the trip, I had told Sofia we should look for a church for confession; God had already prepared it for us.

After the burial, we did not leave broken or overcome by loss. We left strengthened, uplifted, and sent forth. Death could not hold Micah, because Christ has already conquered death through His Cross and Resurrection (cf. Rom 8:38–39; Jn 11:25). Faith became light, and that light overcame the darkness (cf. Jn 1:5).

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Saints Among Us

Since Micah’s passing, so many graces and even quiet conversions have unfolded. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it personally. Through Paul’s social media posts, I’ve read countless testimonies from people around the world- stories of prayers answered, hearts changed, and moments of unexpected healing after asking for Micah’s intercession. God is clearly using this little boy in powerful ways.

Scripture reminds us, “God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong” (1 Cor 1:27). Even through suffering we cannot fully understand, the Lord brings forth grace, hope, and life.

Micah is not canonized- yet. But the Church teaches that all who are in heaven are saints, already sharing in the glory of God. The Church teaches that “those who die in the grace of God and have no need of further purification are gathered around Jesus and Mary, the angels, and the saints” (cf. CCC 1023–1026; 1053). They thus form the Church in heaven, where they see God “face to face” (1 Cor 13:12). In faith, we truly believe that Micah is with the Lord, living among the saints in a communion of love with the Most Blessed Trinity, and that they intercede for us.

During Holy Communion at the Funeral Mass, I felt this truth deeply. The Church teaches that through Christ’s Death and Resurrection, heaven and earth are no longer separated but reunited in Him (cf. Eph 1:10). This unity becomes tangible in the Eucharist. At every Mass, heaven touches earth. As Scripture tells us, “You have come to Mount Zion… to countless angels in festal gathering… and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant” (Heb 12:22–24). The Catechism affirms that in the liturgy, we are joined to the worship of heaven (cf. CCC 1137–1139). The saints and angels worship with us. We are never alone.

In that moment, I sensed Micah’s presence, not emotionally or imaginatively, but spiritually. Peaceful. Real. Hope-filled. It was a reminder of what St. Paul proclaims: “Whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s” (Rom 14:8).

Growing up, my parents used to tell me, “When we are gone, remember, we will always meet you at Mass, especially during Communion.” That is our Catholic faith. In Christ, we remain united. As the Church teaches, “The communion of saints is the Church” (CCC 946), and “nothing- not even death- can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus” (Rom 8:38–39).

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Worship in the Midst of Suffering

One image will stay with me forever. In the middle of the Mass, in the midst of their grief, Paul and Maggie raised their hands in worship.

That is faith.


That is witness.


That is surrender.

Thank you, Paul and Maggie, for teaching us how to trust God even when it hurts. We may not see Micah again in this world, but we hope, by God’s mercy, to see him again in heaven.

This experience taught me not to fear death, but to live faithfully to God, to love deeply and to trust completely.

Because in Christ, death is not the end.


It is a doorway.


And Micah has already walked through it.

Micah Joseph Kim, pray for us.

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