Trading the Grief for a Witness

When Grief Ambushes, Don’t Run—Reframe

Some days grief shows up like Texas rain—hot pavement, sudden downpour, and then you’re drenched before you can grab an umbrella. I’ll be driving and a song comes on, or I pass a place my mom loved, and there it is: the ache, the missing, the heaviness that sits right on my chest. For a long time, those moments felt like failure—like I should be “further along.” But learning more about grief helped me name what’s really happening: it’s a grief ambush—a term from GriefShare.org for those sudden emotional surges triggered by sensory memories.

They’re not setbacks. According to Dr. Mary-Frances O’Connor, author of The Grieving Brain, grief is part of how the brain learns to live with emotional bonds even after physical separation. These ambushes reflect that process—the mind bumping into love in the absence of presence.

Instead of outrunning them, I’ve started riding the wave. I let myself feel it. I’ll say, “This hurts because I love you,” and breathe. Sometimes I keep driving. Other times, I pull over. Either way, I’m not suppressing it. I’m naming it.

And in those raw places, Scripture reminds me I’m not alone. “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle” (Psalm 56:8). Even in the chaos of sorrow, God is collecting every tear. Some days I wonder if grief ever really ends—or if it just learns to walk beside us. Maybe the miracle isn’t moving on without pain. Maybe it’s learning to move with love—and trusting God to hold the rest.

That shift helped me realize that coping loss doesn’t mean suppressing grief. It means allowing space for both memory and movement. On the hardest days, like the quiet ones when sorrow lingers long after the crowd is gone, I find comfort in knowing grief isn’t a sign I’m broken. It’s proof that love has roots.

Turning Pain into Tribute

What I’m trying to practice now is a reframe—not denying grief, but slowly reshaping it into tribute. After an ambush hits, I choose one small act that honors her. I’ve built a personal set of grief resources—not fancy, not forced, just helpful:

• Name the moment. “This is grief, not weakness.”

• Micro-ritual. Let the song play. Hand over my heart. A whisper: “Thank you, Mom.”

• One small creation. Voice memo. Note. A breadcrumb I can revisit.

• Reach out. A simple message to someone else grieving: “I get it. Thinking of you.”

I’ve also begun creating what Christina Rasmussen calls “new firsts”—life-giving rituals that reclaim legacy. I’ll have dinner with a friend at her favorite restaurant—my treat—in her memory. I donate children’s books to a school or shelter, honoring her years as a first-grade teacher. And I keep her words close, like “We have a choice to be happy or be sad.” Her voice still guides mine.

Author Henri Nouwen once wrote, “The great challenge is living your wounds through instead of thinking them through.” These small tributes help me do that—not just reflect on pain but act from it. They don’t erase grief. They give it purpose.

And when I need deeper grounding, I return to Bible verses for grief that don’t preach at me, but stay with me. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted” is a quiet breath prayer I carry often. I don’t use verses like a Band-Aid. I use them like a handrail—something to hold when the path is uneven.

The more I share this journey, the more I see how powerful storytelling can be in grief. I used to think that if I spoke about it too much, I’d become “the sad guy.” But what I’ve discovered is that when I speak honestly, others feel safe to do the same. Even years later, some are still silently carrying the weight of their loss, waiting for someone to say, “Me too.”

Scripture confirms this isn’t just emotional—it’s spiritual: “God… comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction” (2 Corinthians 1:3–4). That verse is a quiet charge: what comforts you is meant to multiply.

So here’s what I’m learning as a man of faith who misses his mom: grief isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a relationship to steward. When a grief ambush comes, I let it speak—and then I try to speak back with a small act of love. Not because I’m strong, but because love still is.

If today you’re pulled under by memory, try this: breathe, name it, and offer one small tribute. Pick up the check at her favorite diner. Donate a book she would’ve loved to read aloud. Repeat the words she used to say until they find their way back into your own. None of it fixes the ache. But all of it teaches your heart how to carry both sorrow and gratitude at the same time.

That’s the quiet miracle I’m chasing—not moving on, but moving with. Not forgetting, but remembering in motion. Trading the weight for a witness—one small act at a time.

Question for you: When a grief ambush finds you—what’s one small tribute you could offer that would help turn that pain into a quiet celebration of love?

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