I Am With You Always

A Message for the Angel of Hope Service of Remembrance
Tuesday, December 2, 2025

Good evening, friends.

It’s an honor and a privilege to be with you tonight.

My name is Father Eric Mancil, and I serve as the rector of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church here in Andalusia.

I want to begin by offering my heartfelt thanks to Debbie Grimes and to the other officers for the Angel of Hope for inviting me to be part of this service of remembrance.

The work you do—the compassion you offer, the space you provide for those who grieve—matters deeply to families throughout Covington County. Thank you for making this night possible.

We gather here at the Angel of Hope because this is a sacred place.

Each of us comes here tonight with a story.

Each of us carries a name, a face, a memory that has shaped our life more deeply than words can describe.

Tonight, we gather because we know that love never ends.

And because grief—especially the grief of losing a child—doesn’t follow a timeline or conform to what the world expects of us.

This time of the year makes that especially clear.

As December begins, the world around us tells us we should be cheerful all the time and full of holiday joy.

Everywhere we turn, there are Christmas lights, decorations, music, and messages insisting that this season is all about celebration.

And yet—for so many who carry deep grief—this is the season that hurts the most.

The empty chair at the table, the tradition that feels incomplete, the memory that arrives without warning… all of these can take what is supposed to be a joyful time and make it heavy or too painful to bear.

And so tonight matters.

Tonight gives us permission to be honest.

Permission to feel what we feel.

Permission to acknowledge that grief doesn’t take a holiday break.

Here, in this sacred place, no one has to pretend.

No one has to hide their feelings or their questions.

No one has to put on the holiday mask the world expects. 

Tonight we simply come as we are—carrying all the love, all the longing, all the pain, and all the gratitude that come with remembering a child who will always be part of us.

As a pastor—and as a parent myself—I’ve walked with many people who’ve carried deep grief of all kinds.

And while I’ve never walked through the loss that many of you carry, I do know what it means to love a child with your whole heart.

I know the way a child becomes part of you, the way their life shapes your own.

And because of that, I can only begin to imagine the deep pain that comes with losing a son or daughter.

What I do know is that grief is not a problem to solve or something we should be expected to just “get over.”

Grief is love—love that still aches, love that still reaches, love that still remembers.

Some days that grief feels like a fresh wound.

Other days, it rests quietly in the background until a smell, or a song, or a moment brings it rushing back.

But in every case, grief becomes a companion we never asked for—one that walks with us day after day.

So, please hear me tonight when I say that there’s no right or wrong way to grieve.

There is no timetable.

There is no moment when you are “supposed” to just all of a sudden feel better.

Your grief is real.

Your journey is your own.

And for those who’ve lost a child, their life will always matter.

This Angel of Hope stands here for that very reason.

Her open arms, her outstretched wings, her quiet presence: they remind us that none of us grieve alone.

All around the world, more than 150 of these angels stand in communities just like this one, bearing witness to the truth that a parent’s love does not end with death.

This angel is not a symbol of a simple or shallow hope.

She represents a deeper kind of hope—the kind that rises even in sorrow, that reminds us love is never lost, and that assures us God will never leave us to face our pain alone.

As people of faith, we hold to a promise that sustains us: the promise that God is with us, even in our deepest pain.

Jesus never said we would not face sorrow or heartbreak.

He never said that life would be free from suffering.

What he did say—what he promised—is that we would never face those moments alone. “I am with you always,” he said.

Not just in the easy days, not just in the joyful days, but in the darkest nights and the heaviest hours.

Jesus knew grief.

He wept at the tomb of his friend, Lazarus.

He felt the sting of loss.

And because he knows grief from the inside, we can trust that he walks with us through ours—not to take the pain away, but to carry it with us, to lift us up when we fall, and to remind us that love is stronger than death itself.

In a few moments, many of you will come forward to place a flower at the Angel of Hope.

It is a simple act, but it carries such deep meaning.

It is a way of saying, “My child lived. My child was loved. My child is still loved.”

And through that love, their light continues—shining in your memories, in your stories, in the ways they shaped who you are.

And the hope we proclaim tonight, the hope of the Gospel, adds this: your child is held in the eternal embrace of God in a place where there is no pain, no fear, no suffering, only peace and love beyond our understanding.

Until that day when all things are made new and we’re reunited with those we love, God gives us the strength to keep going.

One breath at a time. One step at a time. One act of courage at a time.

My prayer for you tonight is that you feel surrounded by God’s love, upheld by this community, and filled—if even only for a moment—with a sense of peace.

You’re not alone. Not tonight. Not ever.

May the God who knows your story, who holds your tears, and who loves you and your child more than you can imagine, grant you comfort, strength, and hope—hope deep enough to carry you through the days ahead, and love strong enough to remind you that nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Let us pray.

Holy and gracious God, tonight we lift before you the children we love and remember. We thank you for their lives, for the joy they brought us, for the ways they shaped our hearts and still shape them even now. Hold their families in your tender care. Surround them with your peace in moments of sorrow, your strength in moments of weakness, and your gentle presence when the weight of grief feels too heavy. Remind us that you are a God who walks with us—not to take away our pain, but to help us carry it, to lift us up when we fall, and to shine light into the darkness.

Bless each person gathered here tonight. Calm their anxious hearts, renew their courage, and fill them with a hope that lasts. And as we leave this place, help us to carry the love of our children with us—not as a burden, but as a sacred flame that continues to burn brightly. All this we pray in the name of the one who is our comfort and our hope, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.