Tag Archives: grief

When Grief Walks with Us: Faith in the Midst of Loss

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Grief arrives in its own time and in its own way.

Sometimes it shows up in the loud, obvious moments—the loss of someone we deeply loved, the funeral, the silence after the last goodbye. Other times, it slips in quietly—through a dream that won’t come true, a relationship that drifts or shatters, a life path that takes a sharp and unexpected turn. Grief doesn’t always wear black or come with casseroles and sympathy cards. Sometimes it looks like exhaustion. Sometimes it looks like a smile you force because you think you’re supposed to be “over it” by now.

Grief is part of being human. But it’s also sacred ground.

It touches not only our emotions but our very souls—our sense of purpose, our identity, our connection with God. And because of that, grief can shake our faith in ways we didn’t expect.

Some people find that grief pulls them closer to God. In the dark night of sorrow, they reach out and sense His presence more tenderly than ever before. They lean into the Psalms, pray with raw honesty, and discover a depth of intimacy they never knew was possible.

Others find that grief creates distance—questions rise up that have no easy answers:
“Why didn’t You stop this, Lord?”
“Where were You when I needed You most?”
“How can You be good and let this happen?”

And sometimes those questions feel like doubt. Sometimes they feel like betrayal. But here’s the truth that brings comfort: grief is not a failure of faith. In fact, grief is often the evidence of love, and faith is the act of continuing to breathe, to hope, to cry out—even when we don’t understand.

Think of Job, sitting in the ashes, scraping his wounds with pottery shards. He didn’t pretend everything was fine. He didn’t quote Scripture back to his own pain to silence it. He grieved. Loudly. Messily. Honestly. And God met him there—not to shame him, but to speak to him personally and powerfully.

Think of David, who poured out anguish in his psalms, his words trembling between worship and weeping.
“How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)
David’s cries didn’t disqualify him from faith—they revealed the kind of faith that dares to speak when nothing makes sense. The kind of faith that trusts God is big enough to handle our hardest emotions.

Even Jesus wept.
He knew resurrection was coming, but He still stood at the tomb of His friend and wept. He didn’t rush past sorrow. He didn’t say, “Don’t cry—it’s all part of God’s plan.” He let the grief be real, because love was real.

And that’s the invitation we are given, too. To let our grief be real. To let our hearts break open in safe hands. To bring our aching selves to the foot of the cross and say, “Lord, here I am. I don’t know what to do with this pain, but I trust You are near.”

Everyone grieves differently.
There is no perfect timeline.
No single “right” way to do it.

Some will talk about their loss with anyone who will listen. Others will withdraw and need silence to sort through their soul. Some will cry every day. Others won’t shed a tear but will carry their sorrow deep in their bones. And all of it is okay.

We do not need to compare grief or judge how it’s unfolding in ourselves or others. God doesn’t.
He is patient with us. Gentle with us. Present with us.

Romans 12:15 says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” That verse isn’t a call to fix people’s pain. It’s a call to be with them in it. To show up. To sit in the quiet. To let people be wherever they are without rushing them toward healing they’re not ready for.

And perhaps most importantly—it’s a reminder that God does the same for us.
He sits with us in the ashes. He holds us when we are too tired to hope. He doesn’t ask us to perform faith, or to put on a brave face. He asks us to come.

If your faith feels wobbly in this season of grief, take heart. Faith isn’t always loud or certain or filled with joy. Sometimes faith is just showing up. Sometimes it’s a whispered prayer through tears. Sometimes it’s letting others believe for you when you can’t quite believe for yourself.

Your grief doesn’t disqualify your faith.
Your sadness doesn’t separate you from God.
Your questions don’t scare Him.

He is the Shepherd who walks with us through the valley of the shadow—not around it. Not over it. But through it.

So if you are in that valley right now, be gentle with yourself. Let your grief take its time. Let your faith breathe, stretch, rest. Trust that God is not waiting on the other side of your sorrow—He is right here, in the midst of it, still loving you, still holding you, still calling you His.

Grief may change us. But it doesn’t remove us from God’s love.
It may strip us bare, but even there, in that vulnerable place, we are known. We are seen. We are carried.

And we are never alone.

When the Sirens Keep Singing: A Reflection on School Shootings and the Ache for Peace

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Another school.
Another shooting.
Another place of learning and laughter turned into a scene of chaos and grief.
This week, it was Florida State University. But it could have been anywhere. And that’s what breaks us open again and again.

We weren’t made for this.
Our hearts weren’t meant to learn how to read the signs, rehearse lockdown drills, or scan a classroom for the safest hiding spot. Our children weren’t created to carry the weight of wondering if their school might be next. And yet, here we are—again.

There’s a particular ache that comes with these headlines. A kind of spiritual nausea. Because how many more? How many times can we offer thoughts and prayers while holding the staggering reality that the world feels increasingly unsafe—and seemingly unchanged?

As people of faith, we believe in a God who sees. Who hears the blood of Abel still crying from the ground. Who weeps with us in the hallways of our grief. And still, we wrestle: What do we do when prayers feel powerless and action feels paralyzed?

Here are a few reflections I’m sitting with this week:

1. Grief Is a Holy Response

Lament is not weakness—it is worship. Scripture is filled with cries of “How long, O Lord?” and “Why have You forsaken me?” We are invited to bring our sorrow before the throne of grace, not sanitize it. We don’t need to rush past our heartbreak. Jesus Himself wept over death. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. And we are never more like Him than when we grieve with those who grieve.

2. Proximity Matters

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the scale of the problem and retreat into helplessness. But love calls us to proximity. To see the people in our immediate circles who are afraid, angry, or numb. To check on the teachers, students, parents, and first responders. To be present in the long aftermath, not just the news cycle. This is how we become the hands and feet of Christ—by moving toward pain, not away from it.

3. Peacemaking Is Not Passive

Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” not the peacekeepers. Making peace requires courage. It demands we enter the mess and do the hard, often unseen work of healing. That might mean advocacy. It might mean deeper conversations about mental health, gun violence, access to care, or the spiritual formation of our communities. It might mean raising our voices in love, even when it’s uncomfortable. The Gospel does not call us to comfort—it calls us to cross-bearing.

4. Resurrection Is Our Anchor

The cross tells us that evil is real. But the empty tomb tells us it doesn’t get the final word. As Christians, we hold a dual citizenship—one foot in a broken world, the other in the unshakable Kingdom of God. We mourn the present pain, but we do not despair. Because we know the arc of history bends toward redemption. Because even in the valley of the shadow, we are not alone.

So, what do we do?

We pray.
We grieve.
We show up.
We listen.
We advocate.
We hold tight to hope.

Not a shallow, sugarcoated hope—but a gritty, resurrection-shaped hope that refuses to give up on a world that God still so deeply loves.

And maybe, in the face of so much senseless violence, we take up a different kind of weapon:
Kindness that disrupts hate.
Courage that interrupts apathy.
Faith that insists light is still stronger than darkness.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Make us instruments of Your peace.

Beauty and Ashes: A Journey Through Ukraine

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A reflection from the front lines of grief, resilience, and hope

After a week of travel, teaching, and countless sacred conversations, I’m sitting in Nashville reflecting on all I’ve seen and felt. My journey to Ukraine this time was unlike any other—a collision of beauty and brokenness, resilience and sorrow, silence and song.

It began on a crisp Friday morning in Nolensville, Tennessee. My senior dog, Maci, seemed to know I was leaving. Her eyes followed every movement as I packed, full of the kind of knowing that only comes with years of companionship. The airport goodbye was tender—quiet, weighty. And from that moment on, I was caught in the current of something much larger than myself.

A turbulent flight to D.C. almost caused me to miss my connection, but grace intervened and I made it to Krakow. Slavik and his young son greeted me, and we drove the three hours to the Ukrainian border, winding through quiet villages and rolling fields. A stop at McDonald’s for cheeseburgers and coffee felt oddly grounding—one last moment of Western normalcy before stepping across the threshold into war-torn Ukraine.

We crossed the border on foot.

Each step on the cobblestones carried weight—leaving peace behind and walking into grief. The change in atmosphere was immediate, not just politically, but spiritually. In Lviv, I returned to the same hotel I stayed in last time. Familiarity helped, even as the city felt different. The golden domes still caught the light, but the air was heavier. The grief more palpable.

Each morning in Lviv began the same: a beautiful, generous breakfast followed by a moment of collective stillness at 9 a.m.—a city-wide pause to remember the fallen. Forks rested. Conversations ceased. For one minute, all of Ukraine stilled to honor those lost in the Great War.

It became a ritual that shaped the rhythm of my day. A sacred reminder that even amid the ordinary—coffee, eggs, chatter—grief walks with us.

At the seminary, I met 24 students training to become counselors in a country still at war. These were not theoretical learners—they were survivors. One student had a prosthetic leg. Another was a combat medic. A young woman had fled Kherson alone. Another had watched her hometown be destroyed.

They brought their full selves to the classroom—grief and hope, pain and persistence. And together, we created space for deep learning: neurobiology of trauma, treatment planning, post-traumatic growth, and narrative healing.

The classroom became holy ground.

Tears came freely. One student broke down mid-case presentation. Another asked, “How do I keep going?” after months of serving on the front lines. And yet, laughter showed up too—in role-plays, over coffee, and in the quiet joy of shared understanding. Hope insisted on making space.

Outside the classroom, beauty met me again and again.

Late-night walks on cobblestone streets where violinists played in the open air. Dinners at Jewish-Ukrainian fusion restaurants. Candles flickering during quiet conversations. One woman said, “There is more to save in Ukraine than has been destroyed.” I saw that truth lived out in every corner.

My translator had been sent to the front three times. He carried trauma in his body but translated with such care—turning pain into something redemptive. A young assistant in the department became a steady source of joy, always ready with help and encouragement.

Students offered small but deeply meaningful gifts—bananas, coffee, earrings, handwritten notes. One told me, “You are Ukrainian now.” I felt the weight of that blessing.

As the week ended, I was given a rushnyk—a traditional embroidered cloth used in Ukrainian weddings. Couples step onto it as they take their vows. Receiving one felt like a vow had been made between myself and this land, these people, this sacred work.

The journey back across the border was long—five hours in cold rain, every bag searched, every body tired. But still, kindness lingered. Strangers held umbrellas for one another. No words needed—just shared humanity.

In Krakow, I allowed myself one quiet day. I wandered through medieval streets. I watched a parade from a glass-walled café. I listened to the trumpet call from St. Mary’s Basilica—its abrupt ending a centuries-old tradition honoring a fallen hero.

It felt fitting.

Now, back in Nashville, I carry a strange mixture:

  • The deep trauma entrusted to me by students who are still living in the storm.
  • The ache of uncertain news from the front.
  • The warmth of dinner with Macon.
  • The soft glow of patio lights I strung with tired hands when I couldn’t fix anything else.
  • The anticipation of tomorrow’s table, where stories and laughter will meet again.

This work is heavy.
But it is holy.
And it is not finished.

How You Can Pray

  • For my students at UBTS, who are learning to help others while carrying their own unhealed wounds.
  • For those on the front lines and the families waiting for their return.
  • For the children growing up in war—may they one day know safety, peace, and joy.
  • For the church in Ukraine—that leaders would be renewed with strength and hope.
  • For the restoration of Ukraine.
  • And for my own heart—that I may hold these stories with reverence and release them with trust.

To those who prayed, who followed, who lifted me up from afar—thank you.
Your love was felt in every step, in every word.
Your prayers made space for this sacred work.

With love and deep gratitude,
Sandy