The Gift of Grief

Yesterday, at our church, the sermon was based on the movie, “Letters to God.” It was about suffering and grief, and how God makes something beautiful from our pain. Topics like that always resonate with me.


Years ago, I thought being a Christ follower meant having all my needs (and wants) met. Prosperity, healing, a perfect family. Yet that hasn’t been my reality, and it has taken me years to learn why.

“Letters to God” is based on a true story about Tyler, an 8-year-old boy who has brain cancer. In one of the scenes a grandfather figure explains to Tyler that he was “chosen by God” for a unique “honor.” Chosen by God to suffer? Not exactly. Tyler was chosen by God to be a warrior, to point people to God.

That’s kind of the way I feel about grief. When we first lost our daughter in a car accident almost seven years ago, I felt like I had become a member of a club no one wants to join. I’m a member of a few other clubs I rather not have joined, but the “Outliving Your Child Club” has been one of the most painful.

As I woke up this morning, I had a picture in my head of grief being like a gift. I know that sounds strange, but it’s true. It’s a gift that no one really wants, but we all receive at some point in life. Some of us receive it earlier in life. Some receive it more often. But if you ever love anyone, chances are, you will receive the gift of grief somewhere along the way.

My grief if wrapped up in a beautiful box. Early in my grief journey, I carried it with me everywhere I went. It was heavy and it consumed every moment of every day. It invaded every decision, every action, every move I made. I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t go into Wal Mart without carrying this giant gift with me.

As time went by, I was able to leave my gift at home more often. It was still there. It was still mine, but I didn’t have to carry it with me everywhere I went. Now, almost seven years after my daughter’s death, it’s like I keep my gift on a shelf. Every now and then, especially on holidays, birthdays, and what would have been milestones in her life, I take my gift down off the shelf. I open it up and take out my grief. I hold it in my hands, turning it over and over. I feel the weight of it, the hardness of it. I know this sounds crazy, but I also admire its beauty. I cry a little—sometimes a lot. I blog about it some, but not as often as I used to. But then, I put my grief back in that box. I tie the beautiful bow around it, and I gently place it back on the shelf.

Then I go on with life. Seven years ago, I never would have believed that I could go on with life without my daughter. But here I am, functioning, parenting again, serving, living. And my gift of grief remains… until the next time I take it down off the shelf. My grief has changed my life, but it no longer consumes my life. Because of this gift, I have found a Hope that I otherwise would never have known… a true Unswerving Hope.