The Unpredictable Weight of Loss

When Grief Hits Out of Nowhere

It’s strange how grief works. One moment, you’re managing okay, and then, without warning, the weight of the loss doubles—like it just sneaks up and catches you off guard. There’s no particular date circled on the calendar, no looming anniversary, just an ordinary day that suddenly isn’t ordinary at all. Maybe it’s a small, mundane task—like stopping by the bank to finish some lingering paperwork for her. One more harsh reminder that she’s really gone. Or maybe it’s the sinking realization that this isn’t temporary. She’s not coming back, and I’m left standing in this widening gap, wondering what comes next.

Dallas Willard once said, “The space of your sorrow is the space where God’s presence will meet you if you dare to invite Him into it.” But on days like this, that space feels more like a chasm than a comfort. It’s not that I doubt He’s there, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder: How does God meet us when the void feels bottomless? How do I keep moving forward when each day reveals yet another piece of what I’ve lost? What does grace look like when everything inside me just feels empty?

Wrestling with Joy and Loneliness

Even though today was rough, the Lord gave me a small gift: I pushed myself to meet up with my old water racing team. I hadn’t seen them in over a year—since before mom got really sick. It felt strange, almost like stepping into someone else’s life. Part of me wanted to stay home and wallow. But I didn’t. And you know what? Seeing everybody was surprisingly refreshing. There were moments of laughter, hugs, and even some old jokes that made me smile.

But even in those small moments of joy, there’s still this undercurrent of sadness. It’s not guilt—I don’t feel guilty for moving forward. It’s more like a loneliness, a deep ache, because I can’t share these new memories with my mom. I miss being able to tell her about reconnecting with old friends or making new ones. That’s the real pain—not guilt, but the reminder that she’s not here to laugh with me, to see these moments, to be a part of what’s happening now.

C.S. Lewis put it well when he said, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid.” Maybe that’s it—grief is that hollow feeling that makes every new experience a little bit lonelier because she’s not a part of it. How do I hold on to joy when each moment is shadowed by the fact that I can’t share it with the person I want to the most? Is it even possible to have joy and sorrow coexist? Or will that emptiness always be there?

Battling the Mind: When Doubts Turn Into Accusations

But then, there’s this other battle—the one in my head. Grief doesn’t just mess with your emotions; it goes straight for your thoughts, making you question everything. It’s like there’s a door cracked open, and doubts and lies come pouring through, telling me I’m not handling this right, that I’m weak or should be doing more. Thomas Brooks once said, “Satan loves to fish in the troubled waters of a discontented heart.” And mine is definitely troubled.

Some days, it’s like I’m being played with—deceptions swirling around, and I’m falling for them. Am I really trusting God in this, or am I just pretending? I know I’m not supposed to have it all together, but the lies still whisper, making me question if I’m even grieving “the right way.” Is there a right way to grieve? Is this struggle proof of my faith, or does it reveal my doubt?

Choosing to Stand Firm: Finding God in the Tension

But here’s what I’m realizing: I can’t fight this alone. “Suffering can push us away from God, or it can drive us deeper into His embrace,” Sam Allberry once said. I want to believe that, even when I can’t feel it. I want to grow closer, not bitter. I want to let this pain draw me deeper into His presence. Maybe that’s the real fight—to trust that He’s still here, even when I feel completely drained.

So that’s what I’m trying to do—stay in the Word, pray for strength, and remind myself that He is still here, even when it feels like He’s not. Maybe God hasn’t removed the storm, but He’s promised to be my anchor through it. And that means putting on my armor and standing firm, even when I feel like I’m going to crumble. Even when I’m hanging on by a thread, I have to believe that He’s holding the other end. Maybe faith isn’t just about standing firm but about holding on when it feels like everything’s falling apart.

Grief isn’t a straight path; it’s a winding road filled with unexpected twists, raw emotions, and small moments of grace. There are days when I feel like I’m barely holding on, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe grief and joy can exist side by side, and maybe God meets us in that tension. I’m learning to let Him in, even when it hurts, because His presence is the only thing that makes this journey bearable. So, I’m going to keep holding on—because I know, even in this, He’s holding on to me.

Reflection Question:

Have you ever felt torn between sadness and joy, struggling to find God’s presence in the chaos? What has helped you keep going when it feels like the pain will never end?

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