Part 2: When Grief Shows Up in Unexpected Ways
When Jon died, I truly believed I was handling things well. I stayed busy—teaching piano, homeschooling the kids, staying involved at church. I cried occasionally, but I didn’t allow myself to really feel. I told myself I was being strong, doing what needed to be done, moving forward the way I thought I was supposed to.
At the time, it felt like survival.
What I didn’t realize was that grief doesn’t stay buried forever. When it isn’t given space in our hearts, it often finds expression through our bodies.
For me, it began as anxiety. Fear crept into places it had never been before. A simple sneeze from one of my children could send my heart racing. A smoke detector chirping in the middle of the night left me wide awake and panicked. Late-night phone calls filled me with dread, my mind immediately jumping to the worst possible outcome.
Depression followed close behind. I withdrew—not because I wanted to, but because I was exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. My body felt like it was constantly on high alert, stuck in fight-or-flight mode, and I didn’t know how to turn it off.
Part 1: When You Feel Like You Don’t Have Time to Grieve
“I don’t have time to grieve.”
Those were the words that kept running through my mind after Jon passed. Overnight, my life changed in ways I never could have imagined. I became a widow, a single mom, and the sole person responsible for holding our world together—all at once. There were children to homeschool, piano lessons to teach, bills to pay, and decisions to make. Life didn’t slow down just because my heart had shattered.
Adding grief into that already overwhelming mix felt impossible.
Grief is uncomfortable.
Grief is heavy.
Grief takes time—whether we make space for it or not.
Grief is heavy.
Grief takes time—whether we make space for it or not.
So I did what I thought I had to do. I stayed busy. I kept moving. I told myself I would deal with the pain later—when things settled down, when the kids were older, when life felt more manageable. Feeling the full weight of his absence felt like it would crush me, and I wasn’t sure I would survive that.
And If Not… He Is Still Good
A friend shared this recently: “And if not, He is still good” (Daniel 3:18).
I can’t tell you how much it resonated. Sometimes God answers our prayers differently than we hope—or not in the way we want at all. And yet, even when His answer doesn’t match our expectations, He is still good.
I know this truth deeply, not just in theory, but in life. Sixteen years ago, I became a widow while raising two young children. In one moment, my life as I knew it disappeared. Plans, dreams, identity, routines—all gone. I found myself asking the same questions I imagine many of you have: Why? Why now? Why like this?
And yet, even in that heart-wrenching season, I began to see glimpses of God’s goodness. I didn’t see them right away, and it took me a long time to choose to see His goodness. He gave me strength I didn’t know I had, kindness from friends and family I hadn’t expected, and a sense of peace that could only come from Him. I began learning that His goodness isn’t dependent on circumstances.
God is still good, even when a diagnosis is frightening.
God is still good, even when you lose a job you loved.
God is still good, even when a dream you’ve worked toward is lost.
God is still good, even when a loved one dies.
God is still good, even when you lose a job you loved.
God is still good, even when a dream you’ve worked toward is lost.
God is still good, even when a loved one dies.
Joy in the Aftermath
The day after Christmas can bring a heaviness all its own — especially when you’re grieving. Maybe you spent weeks bracing yourself for Christmas without your spouse or loved one, expecting the day to be dramatic and emotionally overwhelming. But instead… it just felt quiet. Empty. Different in a way you can’t quite put into words.
And now it’s the day after, and what lingers isn’t the chaos or the intensity you prepared for.
It’s the ache.
The quiet realization that you still have to keep going.
There will be more holidays without him. More birthdays. More milestones he won’t be there for.
It’s the ache.
The quiet realization that you still have to keep going.
There will be more holidays without him. More birthdays. More milestones he won’t be there for.
And that realization can hit harder than Christmas Day itself.
I remember feeling this deeply as I approached the first anniversary of Jon’s death. I had braced myself so much for the “firsts” — the first Christmas, the first birthday, the first anniversary — that I hadn’t emotionally prepared for what came after. In some tucked-away part of my mind, I think I believed that if I could just make it through that first year, something would lift. That maybe the second Christmas would magically feel easier. That somehow reaching the anniversary would mark a turning point toward normalcy.
Read more...
Joy in the Manger
The Christmas story is often wrapped in words like joy, peace, and “good news.” We hear phrases like “Merry Christmas” and “joy to the world” everywhere — on cards, in songs, on store displays. But for someone walking through grief, joy can feel impossibly out of reach during the holidays.
And yet, when the angel appeared to the shepherds, he didn’t say,
“Good news of great joy — for those who feel happy.”
He said, “Good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” (Luke 2:10)
“Good news of great joy — for those who feel happy.”
He said, “Good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” (Luke 2:10)
Joy came for the grieving.
Joy came for the brokenhearted.
Joy came for those whose lives did not look the way they hoped.
Joy came for the brokenhearted.
Joy came for those whose lives did not look the way they hoped.
Joy came for you.
Because joy came in the person of Jesus.
Because joy came in the person of Jesus.
The angel went on to say,
“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2:11)
“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2:11)
A Savior — not just for our sins, but for our sorrows.
A Savior who knows grief, pain, betrayal, loneliness, and loss.
A Savior who stepped into our broken world, not to escape suffering, but to enter into it.
Read more...A Savior who knows grief, pain, betrayal, loneliness, and loss.
A Savior who stepped into our broken world, not to escape suffering, but to enter into it.
