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A mother’s faith journey following the death of her son
Kieran and Kim Steinberg in Bozeman, Mont., summer 2013. (Courtesy Photo/Si Steinberg)
By Kim Steinberg
for the ICR
Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents.
I never imagined I would lose my son, Kieran, at 32. I thought he would marry, have his own children, that I would be a grandmother one day.
I remember writing for the Idaho Catholic Register in the early ‘90s. The editor had allowed me to bring three-month-old Kieran to the office where I wrote. He laid on a blanket, tiny hands and feet stretching for the Sesame Street mobile I’d brought along.
After Kieran’s death, I survived the first year in a daze, alternating between numb avoidance and active mourning. I spoke to a grief counselor, painted, journaled and talked to a friend who’d lost a son, trying to come to terms with the loss. Social gatherings elicited anxiety, the inevitable, “How many children do you have?” or “How are the kids?” were a trigger. Prayer led me to confession for the first time in many years. Father said, “Your son is alive,” and I longed for his certainty and faith.
In the decades away from church, I often turned to monasteries in times of trouble. I sought out solitude and silence, spending a month at St. Gertrude’s Monastery in Cottonwood, Idaho, where I yelled at God, prayed with the nuns, and walked the way of the cross. The serene surroundings and spiritual routine consoled me, but upon departing the monastery, intense, unpredictable grief overwhelmed me again.
A trip to the grocery store ended with a meltdown, the result of seeing a mother with two small sons. The sight of a young boy on a skateboard stabbed my heart. Family pictures on my walls provoked a level of emotion I couldn’t contain. Blotting out the pain with television, food or sleep worked temporarily. Anything to stop reliving that terrible phone call the night of January 20, 2023. Anything to stop the endless regrets. If only I’d said this or done that. If only I’d been there. Anything to have my child back.
Candles flickered on the Sacred Sorrows website as I typed my son’s name on the memorial page, grateful for any remembrance, even a stranger’s. The Catholic-based nonprofit offered online and offline programs for mothers and grandmothers who had lost children, but it had only been a year since Kieran’s accidental death in Alaska, where he’d worked as a commercial fisherman.
I wasn’t ready.
Instead, I went to Mount Angel Abbey near Portland, Ore. There, Mother Mary accompanied me on the journey toward healing and wholeness. In my imagination, we knelt together at the foot of the cross, holding the body of Jesus. I knew then, Kieran hadn’t been alone at the moment of his death.
Upon returning home, an irresistible urge to attend Mass gripped me. I started with morning worship once a week at St. Mary’s near my home, staying for Adoration after, then added a Saturday night service. I listened to the Catechism in a Year on the Hallow app. I found familiar rituals comforting, and discovered new meaning in the age-old words of the liturgy.
At the two-year mark, the pain had settled, and I knew better how to care for myself: how to leave a room without apology; how to look away and pray; how to avoid triggering topics and box my memories up to be revived at a time of my choosing.
I came across the bookmarked Sacred Sorrows webpage (sacredsorrows.org) and impulsively registered for a four-day retreat.
Extreme grief had subsided to a dull, heavy ache, an emptiness my firstborn child had once filled. I wanted to find meaning in his loss.
Rita Morton, who started Sacred Sorrows, a ministry born out of the loss of her own child, explained what to expect—gentle acceptance. Clear boundaries around communication. Sacred time alone and together. We weren’t to ask how someone’s child died, potentially opening a heartrending floodgate of grief.
In February 2025, nine mothers gathered at the Redemptorist Renewal Center in Tucson, Arizona. Located on 120 acres in the Sonoran Desert, it was a place of stark beauty: craggy cliffs painted with ancient petroglyphs, miles of saguaro cacti towering over the landscape, simple rooms and comfort food. In the midst of it all, Our Lady of the Desert Church grounded us in faith.
I approached our first session with trepidation. Would grief overcome me in front of people? Was this a safe place? Would the emotions and stories of other mothers send me into a downward spiral?
The women ranged in age and ethnicity, the death of our children a common bond. For some, the loss was as recent as six months ago. For others, decades had passed. Several had lost infants, others adult children. Our grief lived in our bodies, sorrow etched onto our faces and hearts. Their eyes mirrored my own soul, and their arms offered safe harbor.
I needn’t have worried. Rita’s skillful facilitation eased us along a carefully thought-out spiritual journey, while Father Stephan’s presence added a holy sacramental element that spoke to my spirit. Sacred Sorrows provided renewal, a comforting embrace, an encounter with the mystery of grace. I moved slowly through the days, pausing, praying, listening. What did God have to say to me?
During a morning walk, soaking up the sun’s rays, my prayers were answered. On a log bench near a dry wash, amid the call of mourning doves and quail, I crafted stories of hope and healing. Among the rocks and cactus of the desert, the Lord shone His face upon me and granted me peace.
Here I am again, full circle, bringing Kieran with me to write. It’s taken me this long to start to see. Relationships don’t end when a loved one dies. My son visits in my dreams. I talk to him and feel he can hear me. I sense his presence and know he is near. Today, I have hope. My son is in eternity and I will see him again one day.
For more informaton about Sacred Sorrows retreats, visit sacredsorrows.org.
Kim Steinberg gathered at Redemptorist Renewal Center, Tuscon, Ariz., on Feb 8, with nine other mothers for a healing retreat organized by Sacred Sorrows. (Courtesy Photo/Geriann Heslin).
A sacred place for reflection and meditation at the Redemptorist Renewal Center. (Courtesy Photo/Kim Steinberg)
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