Reflections on Grief and Memory

After a week like this one, it’s hard not to carry the weight of unspoken emotions. This past week was significant—one year since the tragic assassination of Charlie Kirk at Utah Valley University. The next day, we observed the 25th anniversary of the September 11 attacks, an event that claimed the lives of 2,977 people across New York, the Pentagon, and Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

May we, as best we can under the circumstances, draw close to those in pain, share in their sorrow, speak the names of their loved ones, and remind them that grief can be a burden shared among friends.

Even though these two events differ greatly in their nature, they serve as stark reminders that evil is not just a hypothetical concept. It finds its way into our lives through unexpected means—whether it’s within a crowd, a cockpit, an office, or a home—leaving behind a trail of blood, unresolved questions, and an empty chair at the table.

Public trauma inevitably transforms into individual sadness, creeping into homes one family at a time.

In response, we often demand investigations, raise arguments, and call for accountability. Seeking truth and justice is vital; evil deserves to be named without needing a justification. But, I think it’s important to note that grief should not require a political or ideological litmus test to be acknowledged as genuine grief.

Back in 1903, a Presbyterian minister, Cleland McAfee, experienced profound grief when his brother lost two young daughters to diphtheria within 24 hours. The highly contagious nature of the illness forced their family into quarantine.

McAfee was more than just a minister; he was a musician and a choir director, and as he sat up late one night, he pondered what he could say or sing the following Sunday.

Out of his sorrow, he penned a hymn:

There is a place of quiet rest,
Near to the heart of God,
A place where sin cannot molest,
Near to the heart of God.

The modern ear may stumble at the word “molest,” which now predominantly refers to sexual abuse. But McAfee used it in a broader sense— to harass or disturb. It’s a harsh word, perhaps; yet, it accurately captures the essence of sin.

Sin intrudes without invitation. It disrupts, violates, corrupts—it twists passenger planes into weapons and turns political differences into violence. Furthermore, it tempts us to mock the deceased, exploit those in mourning, and to retaliate with even more hatred.

McAfee didn’t write his hymn because he was untouched by grief; rather, he created it in the midst of his family’s loss. His nieces were gone, his brother’s household fell into darkness, and they remained isolated due to illness.

He didn’t attempt to rationalize their deaths. Instead, he directed his brother’s gaze towards the one refuge that even death couldn’t breach:

O Jesus, blest Redeemer,
Sent from the heart of God,
Hold us who wait before Thee,
Near to the heart of God.

On that Saturday evening, the choir learned his hymn. However, due to the quarantine, they couldn’t go inside to comfort the grieving family.

As a result, they chose to stand as close as they could.

So there they were, on the lawn beneath the night sky, singing their hearts out through the walls. Their song didn’t erase the loss or answer the family’s questions. Instead, they simply offered their presence, limited as it was, and filled the air with song.

This image has remained with me, a family steeped in grief inside a darkened home, the church gathered outside, enveloped in night, as a hymn floated through the walls.

Even now, 25 years on from September 11, families continue to gather to read the names of those who were lost. A year after the death of Charlie Kirk, his family, friends, and colleagues wrestle with the void he left behind.

The continued sorrow they feel isn’t a sign of weakness; rather, it represents the enduring price of love.

McAfee’s hymn offers no promise that sin will spare our bodies, homes, or country. In fact, the circumstances surrounding its creation refute any such notion. The space near the heart of God isn’t a place where Christians become immune to hardship; it’s, instead, where we can find refuge when hardship strikes, a reminder that evil does not hold ultimate sway.

Christ came into this fractured world and took on its worst afflictions. The cross illustrates the consequences of sin, while the empty tomb assures us that sin will not have the final say.

Most of us may never be in a position to address a grieving nation, yet many of us know someone who is grappling with darkness at home.

The lawn where the choir sang could be any place—perhaps a kitchen table, a pew in church, a phone call, or a quiet visit where very little is said.

As we move beyond this solemn week, amidst ongoing struggles both within our nation and around the globe, let’s keep an eye out for the brokenhearted. May we stand as close as we can to those in anguish, sit with them in their sorrow, recite the names of those they miss, and remind them that they are not alone in their grief.

And when words aren’t enough, maybe we can find a way to simply stand together and sing.