Grief isn’t just about death. It’s about change about endings we didn’t choose or expect, about the deep ache of something once cherished slipping away.
This time, my grief is for a relationship that once felt like home, for dreams that no longer have a place in my future, for a version of myself, who I used to be but can no longer remain. It is different, yet familiar; the same gut-wrenching sorrow, the waves of longing and regret that crash in uninvited, the same struggle to accept what is.
Losing my son is a wound that will never fully heal, a pain that reshaped me in ways I never expected. That kind of grief is raw, untouchable, eternal. Even Jesus, knowing the power of resurrection, wept at the loss of His beloved friend. Jesus wept (John 11:35). If the Son of God Himself felt the weight of sorrow, how much more will we feel it when love and loss collide?
But this grief the kind of letting go that happens while the other person is still alive is a quiet, complicated sorrow. No one brings casseroles for this kind of grief. It lingers in the unspoken moments, in the memories that surface when I least expect them, in the realization that love alone isn’t always enough to hold something together. And yet, I am reminded to trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not on my own understanding; in all my ways submit to Him, and He will make my paths straight (Proverbs 3:5-6). Even when the path is unclear, even when letting go feels impossible, He is guiding me forward.
I have learned that grief demands to be felt. It will not be rushed or reasoned away. It arrives in different forms, in different seasons, and it teaches us who we are when we have to start over. But I hold on to the promise that weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5). Night always feels long, but morning always comes.
And maybe, just maybe, that is its gift.
Brown Study and Wool-Gathering 