Yesterday, we lost a friend.
Tim was a leader. A servant. A man who loved people hard. He had a way of making people feel seen, valued, and cared for. He was always looking for another way to help, another place to serve, another person who might need a hand. He volunteered hard. He loved hard. He showed up hard.
And Tuesday night, I believe he heard the words we all hope to hear one day: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
I know Jesus welcomed him home.
If I’m honest, this one is difficult for me. These losses are always painful because I think of the wife. The new widow. Hours into a lifelong title she never asked for—a title that carries its own battle, its own heartache, its own loneliness. One, that over time, eventually fades for everyone else, but never for her, even as her life moves forward.
I know what Tim’s wife, Lisa, is experiencing right now. I know she may still expect to hear his voice, to reach for him and feel his presence, or to wait for him to walk into a room—and, if we’re honest to Tim’s character, she would expect him to bound into a room like Tigger, looking for a way to help.
Today the calls are coming. The food is arriving. The people are showing up. The memories are shared.
And there’s the shock in the midst of it all. The strange unreality that comes with loss like this. Everything in your life used to be in place, neatly ordered, and assured. Sturdy. Predictable. Complete.
But now there’s rubble.
I see it with my friends. When Cindy lost Rick, when Christine lost Rich, when Kathy lost Tony…and the list goes on of all the women I’ve seen become widows in an instant.
And I know something else.
The tears of friends and colleagues matter. Their stories matter. Their hugs matter. Their prayers matter. Their love reminds us that the person we lost mattered deeply to other people, too.
But no matter how genuine, sincere, loving, and caring, none of those things can fill the enormous emptiness left behind when the person you built your life with is suddenly gone.
Lisa may be standing. She may be praying. She may be trusting Jesus. She may even be able to smile or laugh at a memory. She may be able to answer questions, make decisions, and do all the things that have to be done—and, trust me, There. Is. A. Lot!
But that doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting.
She still stands in the ruins of a life that changed in an instant.
And that’s breathtakingly unbearable.
I think sometimes we unintentionally make grief harder for people because we are so eager to remind them that God is good. We want to reassure them that God’s got this. We want to tell them He is with them.
And all of those things are true.
But sometimes we need to remember that knowing God is with us doesn’t mean we won’t hurt.
Yes, we can trust in the Lord.
Yes, He comforts us.
Yes, He is near to the brokenhearted.
Yes, He will never leave us or forsake us.
But none of that means our hearts won’t break.
Trusting God doesn’t mean we won’t have moments when the pain feels unrelenting. Believing He is faithful doesn’t mean we won’t cry in the middle of the night, or wake up and, just for a moment, forget that everything has changed—only to crash back into the cold reality of what has happened.
Faith doesn’t make us immune to grief. Love insists upon it.
We can know God is good and still ask, Why?
We can trust Him and still feel completely overwhelmed.
We can believe He is holding us and still feel like we are falling apart.
Those things can exist together.
God’s presence doesn’t negate the pain. He meets us in it.
“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” ~Psalm 34:18
He doesn’t always explain what happened. He doesn’t always answer our questions. He doesn’t promise that we won’t walk through deep sorrow.
But He promises Himself.
When everything feels absent from our lives, His presence is what holds us up.
Today, I’m praying for Lisa. I’m praying for Tim’s family, his friends, his colleagues, his church family, and every person who is feeling this loss. I’m praying that in the moments when the grief feels too heavy to carry, they will somehow sense the nearness of the God who promises never to leave them.
Sometimes, that’s the miracle we need most.
Faith doesn’t erase grief. It will be there.
But we’re not carrying it alone.