By Sally Ho
In my previous article, Allowing Jesus to transform your grief [Sunday Examiner, March 16], I shared one of the healing moments when I encountered Jesus in prayer. In this reflection, I would like to bring you back to the day of the tragedy and offer it as a testament to God’s work in my life.
I hope that seeds of hope may be sown in the hearts of those who feel discouraged on their healing journey and that you may see the light of Christ shining through the dark places of my story. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam.
The tragedy happened in January 2010. My younger brother and I were both university students in the UK at the time. What unfolded that day felt like something out of a horror movie, except it was painfully real.
We were victims of a house robbery. I was severely hurt, tied up, and held hostage for six hours by the perpetrators. In the course of those long hours, my brother lost his life.
For many years, grief clouded my vision. Yet, underneath the sorrow loomed the haunting trauma from that night. Did I question why it happened to me? Of course, I did. But my coping mechanism was to look outward, asking, “Why did it happen to my brother?”
Somehow, it seemed easier to cope this way. Still, the questions echoed painfully: “What did I do wrong? What could I have done differently to prevent it? Why him and not me?”
There were long moments when I could see only death as the end and found it difficult to understand the meaning of what Jesus came for. These were some of my moments of doubt and searching
There were long moments when I could see only death as the end and found it difficult to understand the meaning of what Jesus came for. These were some of my moments of doubt and searching.
One question troubled me deeply: Where do people go when they pass away without being baptised? This weighed heavily on me because my brother was not baptised. I remember asking this question to a few devout Christians, but many gave me answers that were black-and-white: if a person isn’t baptised, they go to hell.
These responses felt harsh, unbearable even. But the Catholic chaplain at my university gave me a different answer. He said, “No one ever knows what happens until their last breath ,whether they accepts Jesus or not. We must trust in the mercy of God, who desires to save everyone.”
At that moment in time, I couldn’t have accepted anything less than the hope his answer offered. There are so many good people in this world who do not believe in Jesus, I thought. If God were to turn them away, how could I believe in that God?
The image of God presented by the Catholic chaplain was one of mercy—one that felt right in my heart that I chose to believe in. That glimmer of hope planted a seed in me: the hope that my brother has a chance of heaven and that maybe one day, I will see him again.
At that moment in time, I couldn’t have accepted anything less than the hope his answer offered. There are so many good people in this world who do not believe in Jesus, I thought. If God were to turn them away, how could I believe in that God?
It was also one of the reasons I eventually decided to convert to Catholicism.
That year was supposed to be a milestone of life for many—my final year at university. It was also the year of my pharmacy licence exams, a time of hard work and celebration. Instead, it became the most painful and traumatic year of my life.
Humanly speaking, I have no idea how I found the strength to go through it. Spiritually, I wasn’t yet actively practicing my faith. But someone told me, “Ask Mama Mary for help.” I did. I prayed once, simply asking for her strength to get me through my exams. Then I did what I knew how to do: I studied, and it became a way to distract myself from everything else that was happening.
Looking back, it was a blessing just to make it through. By God’s grace, I graduated with merit, became a registered pharmacist, and found a job all in the year 2010.
Despite everything, at 23-years-old, God carried me through that year—and I knew it.
My journey with Jesus through this trauma has been a story of metanoia—a conversion of heart. The healing journey took 14 years.
The image of God presented by the Catholic chaplain was one of mercy—one that felt right in my heart that I chose to believe in. That glimmer of hope planted a seed in me: the hope that my brother has a chance of heaven and that maybe one day, I will see him again
I praise the Lord’s faithfulness in knocking, in chasing, in searching for me. he hunted me down so he could save me from despair. I praise him for his mercy, his love, and his patience. For all the graces he poured over me, even when my heart was not fully his.
Now, looking back, I see that it has truly been the experience of that beautiful poem, Footprints in the Sand. There was only one set of footprints during the most painful times—and they were not mine. They were his. He carried me when I had no strength left of my own. It is a truth far beyond what I can ever fathom or deserve.
I invite you to pray with me:
Lord Jesus, In my most distressed moments, be with me. Forgive my foolish ways and hold me in my rightful mind. Remind me, when I walk and only see one set of footprints, that these are the times you carried me through without my knowing.
You are a Father who gives me everything for my good, even when I am blind, seeing with sight and not with faith. Please give me the eyes of faith to see your light in the darkness and grant me peace in carrying my cross. In Your most beloved and mighty name, Jesus. Amen.
For all who carry heavy crosses, who wonder where God is in the suffering—look back. You may only see one set of footprints. But take heart. Those are his.
