Will you grieve?

I'm inviting you to.

There’s a word I’ve been using more and more lately. I think before 2023, I rarely ever used it. But since the events of the last three years, including my recovery as well as my wife’s and children’s health struggles, it’s become a part of my regular vocabulary.

I want to invite you to use it as well. Because I think there’s a richness to it that’s beneficial. Not because of what it is, but because of where it leads.

The word I’m talking about is “grief.” As I’ve done the work of letting Jesus into all the aspects of my life, and as our little family has weathered storm after storm, for some reason this word has just been so fitting.

Let me just define it quickly, because I think that will help. Grief is not just sadness. It is not just feeling bad about something you’ve done or that’s been done to you. It’s not anger. It’s not hurt. It’s deeper. I think of Acts 2:37, where Peter preaches a message that doesn’t just move the people, but it says it “cuts to the heart”:

When the people heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and the other apostles, “Brothers, what shall we do?”

Grief cuts to the heart. It goes deep. When someone dies and you grieve, you feel it in your bones. I’m currently following along as a woman I know grieves the suicide of her husband, and every single time she posts her thoughts, feelings, and struggles you can feel it through the screen.

That’s grief.

When I finally got sober and the dark cloud of my years of selfishness started to lift, I can tell you I didn’t just feel bad. I wasn’t just sad. I felt grief. Grief for what I had put my wife through, grief for what I had missed out on with my kids, and especially grief over how I had missed the mark with God, who had loved me despite all I had done and loved me through it.

It wasn’t shame, although I battled that and still do at times. When I grieved my sin, there was a deepness that went beyond my wounded ego and led to both changed actions and a changed heart.

The more and more I grow in sanctification, the more I am convinced at the necessity and benefit of this grief.

For starters, grief is biblical. It “produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret,” Paul says.

Second, grief seems to be the mature version of things like anger, sadness, and hurt. Those are reactionary. Childish, in a way. Grief is different. It’s not retribution or hate. It’s not selfish or self-loathing. It’s the reasonable, cool-headed sage standing in the corner. It doesn’t lead you into trouble, it leads you into restoration. How? Why? Because grief invites Jesus in.

That, I think, is the most important benefit of grief. Grief—rightly understood and rightly practiced—is filled with both surrender and hope. It’s a recognition that you can’t fix the wrong. Instead, you need someone else to intervene. Someone outside to step in. Grief is admitting you need Jesus.

Is that making sense?

These thoughts have surfaced recently as I’ve found myself grieving the loss of two friendships, one more recent than the other. These are people that I trusted, cared about, enjoyed, and expected to not just remain in my life but grow me. And yet, both people walked away in ways that have left me confused.

The first person abruptly stopped answering my calls and texts about three years ago. No explanation, no reason. Just… stopped. The second person insists there isn’t an issue, and yet there’s been intentional distance. While I’ve been able to coax some sort of explanation out of them they continue to downplay it, which has led me struggling to understanding the drastic measures they’ve taken to avoid me.

I keep asking myself, “Am I crazy?”

As I once again found myself thinking through both relationships this week, I was flooded with grief. I’m not spiteful. I’m not angry. I’m more than sad. I’m confused. I’m heartbroken.

I’m… grieved.

It’s the only word that really fits. Especially because of where that grief has led me. See, as I’ve sat in and with this grief, I find myself going somewhere I haven’t always gone: to God. Not just once. Not just every so often. But time and time again, whenever the grief surfaces. And that’s more times than I care to admit.

Anger doesn’t lead me to him. Self-pity doesn’t. Spite doesn’t. But grief? Grief does.

And that, friend, is the life of the believer. Not the absence of struggle, but the constant reminder of where to go when you struggle is present.

So that’s my encouragement to you today: grieve. Because in your grief, you will find the ultimate Comforter.

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Unsplash