When Grief Surprises You

And how to gently journey alongside it in kindness

Disclaimer: This post shares about grief and loss. I always appreciate when an author puts this at the beginning of a post so I can take a second to prepare emotionally before I read. If you feel this post is triggering in any way—you have all the permission to take a break or not read it altogether. This is my way of offering a hand as a friend in kindness to your own journey.

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The afternoon was like any other typical one.

I was sitting on my bed which faces two antique, farmhouse windows that overlook our beautiful farm in northeast Georgia. The tall oak trees outside the windows waved their gentle “Hellos” as did the cows and our one lone donkey that often come up close and just stare into our windows.

I was logging into a website to send simple information as the late afternoon sun poured in—just checking a to-do off my list. Nothing was unique about the information, and nothing was out of the ordinary. All I had to provide for a headcount was my last name and number of people in our family—simple as that. My body didn’t hesitate. My fingers typed the words seamlessly, instinctively writing— “Brown - 7”.

I immediately froze. My heart skipped a beat and my face instantly started tingling and heating up.

There it was again—the gut-punching reminder of the gaping hole in our family.

The grief bubble up like the water that was starting to boil on the stove for dinner.

I sat still—frozen on my bed, reminded that even writing our name and family headcount will never again be as simple as that.

The knot formed in my stomach which surfaces every time I hear the question, “How many kids do you have?” or when we step into a restaurant waiting for a table and I STILL have to take a few extra seconds to count the people in our family.

The hot tears immediately welled in my eyes—one blink sending them streaming down my cheeks.

We would forever in my heart be “Brown - 7”. But the reality I live in, who I cook dinner for, the faces that sit around my table at breakfast, and who I tuck into bed now, is that of a heartbreaking “Brown - 6”. It took one stroke of a keyboard to send instant daggers to my mama’s heart.

My son was longer with us.

All in a moment, I was in a million places. I wanted to run away from a nightmare that had become my reality. I was tenderly curling up next to the pain and sitting with it in silence. I was lashing out in anger. I was holding hope for what has unfolded. I was holding questions, tears and healing—all while still staring at the computer screen.

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Grief has shown up in various forms over the course of many years. On that normal afternoon, it roared its head so surprisingly within a moment’s notice, that it pushed me off balance and toppled me onto the white comforter I was sitting on. At other times, grief has triggered my anger so deeply that I lose site of who I truly am. It’s also shown up in tender ways of shared tears, reminder texts from friends, holding space for questions, and sitting with my husband and children in our loss.

My son is no longer here in our home. We didn’t lay him in the ground, but it has been a grieved death to our family. The emptiness of this loss reverberates throughout the literal and figurative rooms we traverse as a family every day.

My children deeply miss their oldest brother.

My oldest boy, who I held and rocked for endless hours, days, months, and years on end—is no longer in my arms. The halls echo of his laugh. I will never forget the way his hair felt as my fingers ran through it or the way I could wrap his entire body up in a hug.

He’s no longer here.

There will always and forever be an empty seat at our table and a vacant cushion on the couch. There’s one less pair of pajama clad legs when the kids crowd around to brush their teeth at the bathroom sink and there’s still a missing carseat in our van.

I will never again be able to hear certain songs and not think of him. I miss the way his head would always be nodding in steady rhythm to the beat.

Grief and loss all have their own ways of showing up in our lives. No human being on this earth is sheltered from the brokenness that we walk day to day. Loss has a way of resurfacing at the most unprecedented times and lingering when we’d rather it walk right past us. We can try to fight it out. We can try to push it out. We can try to drag it out. But the reality is—the aftermath of what it brings will forever change the life that you traverse and live each day.

Where does grief and loss show up for you?

Is there a loss that feels so big it seems suffocating?

Is there a grief that feels too small to name?

How do you experience God’s presence (or felt absence) in your grief?

I remember telling others for years, “Just give me a timeframe. If I had a timeframe of grief I’d be okay.” But the ebbs and flows of the tumultuous waves of grief and loss are not subject to our wishes. Grief is nuanced—it holds different forms, colors, histories, shades, shapes, and triggers for all of us. The reminders of what was, which no longer is, has a way of surprising us at the most unlikely times:

• when we hear the song on the radio

• when we smell their favorite dish

• when we pass by the empty office we long to fill

• when we see one photo that brings back a rush of memories

• when we drive past locations that hold such deep memories

• when our schedule is too empty in what was previously filled with appointments

• when we see them move on with their life

How do we go about our everyday lives holding our undercurrents of grief but also leaning into the tender trust of our God that says, “I will never leave you or forsake you”?

There is no special formula. There is no time frame, roadmap, or guide to lead you from the beginning of the trailhead to the end of it with grief. Because honestly, it’s a journey we will traverse for the remainder of our days. There is no check list of living with grief for the rest of your life. Yes, I also said that. I believe we as humans will hold aspects of grief that we’ve walked through, until we exhale our final breath.

Because, this earth will hold tears. This earth will hold pain.

But in God’s kindness we can hold the hope that all is not lost. All will not forever be in pain. All will not forever feel empty or hopeless.

Death will not hold victory.

Divorce will not define who you are.

Loss will not have the last word.

Betrayal will hold no power.

Anxiety will not determine your future.

We hold His redemption because of the Cross.

We are invited to hold the hope of wholeness in heaven within the aching pains of this broken world.

We hold the fact that Jesus conquered death so that we may have extraordinary life. We hold the ashes our human eyes see, asking Jesus to give us the lens to view our pain through His eyes and compassion. We hold compassion for ourselves and others on the days when grief’s is screaming so loudly in our face that it’s all we can hear. We can hold hope.

But when you can’t hold hope, you can trust that the hands who formed the foundational particles that shaped the earth, and the fingers that weaved the minuscule cells which made you—hold you and know you.

He is holding hope for you.

“I am less likely to deny my suffering when I learn how God uses it to mold me and draw me closer to him. I will be less likely to see my pains as interruptions to my plans and more able to see them as the means for God to make me ready to receive him. I let Christ live near my hurts and distractions.” - Henri Nouwen¹

Dear reader, if I was with you right now, I would love to hear your story. I’d give all my attention to your tears and pain, as they are valid and real. I wonder how you’re being invited to notice your grief today? Where are you being held? Where do you long to feel held? Where are you being asked to walk alongside another’s grief?

My grief journey has brought wordless awe by what I’ve been invited to peek behind the veil of heaven and earth and witness with my human eyes.

I wonder what redemption our grief will have the opportunity to bear witness to?

May we hold our grief and others walking with their own grief, in kindness. May we look at the unexpected appearance of grief, notice it, acknowledge it, and gently allow it to sit with us. It doesn’t have to overtake, and it doesn’t have to be swept under the rug. We can look over at grief, as it accompanies us on the journey of life, nodding in solidarity—but know that it doesn’t have to lead us. May we remember that we are embraced by the One who is leading, guiding, weaving, and working His greater plan for redemption and wholeness.

Grief may surprise us—but it will never have the last word.

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Substack always offers their writers the option to open up for paid subscriptions. I know many writers on this platform offer this to their subscribers, but for me, I hope to always keep what I offer here in this space free of charge. My husband and I serve in support-based missions work in diaspora ministry, specifically in refugee care. If you want to support my writing—you could give a one-time or recurring donation to our ministry and that would be a huge blessing.

1. Henri J.M. Nouwen, Turn My Mourning into Dancing: Finding Hope in Hard Times

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