Ripples of Grief and the God Who Meets Us There

Our trauma.

It’s on the tip of everyone’s tongues these days.

Identifying it.
Working through it.
Setting boundaries.
Holding those boundaries.
Trying to move forward the best we can.

The American Psychological Society defines trauma as “any disturbing experience that results in significant fear, helplessness, dissociation, confusion, or other disruptive feelings intense enough to have a long-lasting negative effect on a person’s attitudes, behavior, and other aspects of functioning.”

We all have our own trauma to work through. Some less and some more—but it is still trauma.

I often wonder why we compare our trauma. Pain isn’t a competition, and there is no trophy for who has suffered the most.

It’s interesting to me how different generations deal with trauma. Some of us were taught to ignore it, bury it, and keep moving. Others work intentionally to face it, understand it, and heal from it.

I would never belittle anyone’s trauma. I have my own pile of it to manage.

Tonight, I’m feeling a little anxious. My mind is wandering and ruminating.

I want to fix things so I’ll be okay. I wish I could. But it’s simply not within my grasp to fix everything. Sometimes I just can’t even fix things for myself.

I’m reminded of Psalm 23:3–4:

He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

The “valley of the shadow of death” doesn’t always mean physical death. Sometimes it simply means the darkest valleys of life. These verses remind us that even there—especially there—God is present.

That truth is comforting to me tonight.

Yesterday, Bruce and I stood among a crowd at a candlelight vigil remembering a beautiful young life taken far too soon.

It would be so easy to blame God. I’ve done that before. And if I were standing in the very center of the trauma this family is walking through, I might be tempted to do it again.

But even then, God still reaches for us. He still wants to pull us close and comfort us.

There are still so many unanswered questions. Questions we may never fully understand on this side of heaven.

In the valley, we are human. We may feel angry, fearful, or deeply sad. God already knows this about us.

Yet even in the valley, He is there restoring, strengthening, and slowly rejuvenating our weary souls. As we moved quietly through the crowd, the passing of such a young life had ripple effects. I listened to story after story—each one like dropping a pebble into a still pond.

“I feel like I’m going to break into tears at any moment,” a young girl whispered into Bruce’s ear as she was petting his soft fur. A emotional truth spoken to a nonjudgmental and confidential presence.

Anger.
Sadness.
Unbelief.
Fear.

Grief spreading outward through families, friendships, and a community trying to make sense of something that cannot really be explained.

Sometimes we cannot make sense of life.
Sometimes we cannot make sense of death.

Maybe we aren’t meant to.

But we still have to walk through the valleys they leave behind.

And that’s the hard part.

So tonight, even with unanswered questions and a restless mind, I choose faith.

God comforts us in a myriad of ways—sometimes through others, and sometimes through a dog.

And if you’re not in that space where you can be comforted by God, it’s okay. When you’re ready, He is waiting.

Sandy

2 Corinthians 1:3-5
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too.