An honest word about grief

Published 12:20 pm Tuesday, February 17, 2026

This past week I had the opportunity to speak to a group of people who are grieving the loss of a spouse.

If you know my story, you know I know what that is like.

The murder of my wife and son transformed my life. Suddenly, I was a single parent. I felt angry, directionless, and overwhelmed. I resented the person responsible and my wife for leaving me to handle life alone. Some of my anger made sense, and some did not. Grief has a way of distorting everything.

Eventually, the rawness eased and became more manageable. I began to think a bit more clearly—enough to know that I wanted to find some kind of redemption from this tragedy.

Over time, I decided that the best way to honor my losses was to be a source of comfort and hope for others. I had already learned that words wouldn’t work, but presence could.

Presence is listening without trying to fix it. Presence is just that: being there, sitting quietly, and doing the things they may not yet have the strength to do.

Grief shared teaches us how much we need each other. And amazingly, as I tried to be a source of hope and comfort, I began to heal. I became less focused on my losses and more focused on helping others. That doesn’t mean the grief went away. It didn’t. It still hasn’t.

But it gave me the perspective I desperately needed. Yet there are still moments that catch me off guard. There are still days when a memory rises and takes my breath away. There are still empty seats at the table—still names I wish I could say out loud one more time.

Grief never really gets smaller. Over time, we grow around it and learn to carry it differently without letting it define us. Sometimes, almost without realizing it, we discover that the very pain we wish we didn’t have becomes the place where God meets us most tenderly. Not with answers or explanations, but with presence.

Jesus never promised that grief would be easy or go away quickly But he did promise rest for weary souls—and that promise still holds.

If all you can do today is breathe, that is enough. If all you can manage is to show up, that matters. If your faith feels fragile and your grief feels heavy, you are not failing; you are human. If you ever find yourself able to sit with someone in their pain without fixing it or rushing it, know this: you are doing holy work.

Grief carried alone is crushing, but grief shared is bearable.

And for now, that is enough.

“Come to me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take up my yoke and learn from me, because I am lowly and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28–30 CSB17)