“No one warned me that sadness felt a lot like fear,” C.S. Lewis reflected during his time of mourning after losing his wife. Grief can shake our faith and make us question whether God is truly who we believed Him to be or if our suffering holds any significance. Lewis saw grief as a teacher, providing a guide for others to navigate their sorrow, process it, and honor their experiences of loss and trauma.
This understanding doesn’t just happen overnight. It requires time and perhaps a willingness to appreciate pain for what it is. There’s a quiet dignity in observing our hurt rather than trying to suppress it, along with an acceptance that some things in life are meant to be understood rather than simply overcome.
Suffering isn’t meant to amplify our volume or assert our righteousness; it serves a deeper purpose: to educate us. The lessons it imparts foster maturity, steering away from merely igniting outrage.
I remember witnessing a young widow enter the public sphere just weeks following her husband’s passing. Many called her strong, which might be true, but I sensed a profound sadness that lingered, raw and fresh amid the chaos surrounding her.
We often rush to commend bravery, yet hesitate when it comes to truly sitting with sorrow. Pain unfolds before us while audiences watch closely, eager to discuss grief at lightning speed. The pivotal question is not whether we should explore, but how. Should we approach grief with reverence or rhetoric?
When Nations Mourn
The sentiment in one individual’s heart resonates on a national level. Following 9/11, America was primed for battle, and we did react. But what have we truly learned? How have we evolved? What have we lost in this tumult? While pain can ignite a nation, it doesn’t inherently mature its citizens. Have we devoted adequate time to reflect on national trauma?
The lives lost, the injured returned home, and the staggering resources spent illustrate that we have not. And this holds true for our individual minds as well. If we rush past our pain, we miss the understanding it can provide.
The notion that God oversees our suffering can often be uncomfortable. Pain lacks purpose unless it falls under divine sovereignty; it’s something endured, not altered. Although His governance might not always appear gentle, William Cooper reminded us, “Behind his frowning providence, He hides a smile.”
In my four decades as a caregiver, I’ve realized that trauma speaks its own language and cannot be hurried through. It requires presence, patience, and space. Dr. Diane Langberg, who has dedicated her life to supporting the wounded, often states, “Never have the courage to rush when God Himself is willing to be with you.” That embodies service: not speaking to Him, but being with Him.
The Wisdom of Mourning
The Jewish tradition illustrates this beautifully. When someone dies, the bereaved engage in a week of stillness and reflection known as Shiva. Friends visit not to offer solutions, but simply to provide companionship. Following that, there’s Sheroshim—a month-long period to help gradually return to daily life. For parents, mourning continues for a full year. Their approach teaches us what many in our culture have forgotten: Mourning is not a disruption of life; it is an integral part of it.
We might adopt a different rhythm in the wake of tragedy—lowering flags to half-mast for a day or two to pause, reflect, and pray. However, once the flag rises again, life resumes. That makes sense on a national scale but doesn’t resonate with the deeply personal aspect of mourning. For families, the flag remains down long after the headlines fade.
There’s a tendency in church communities to rush healing. We often confuse tranquility with restoration and public displays of strength with genuine peace. Yet the sadness they must perform often unravels in private, sometimes spilling over into public realms.
I recall when my wife Gracie lost her leg and endured a long journey of pain. Her healing didn’t happen through constant attention or activity. Rather, it evolved quietly—through grace, tears, and time. People see her laughter and singing and assume she’s moved past her struggles. What they don’t see is that she has had to redefine her entire life. This has become her new reality. Someone once shared this wisdom: “Process your pain privately and share your journey publicly.” That’s been valuable for us over the years.
Silent Saints of Suffering
Our society is too hasty to put those in pain on display when they might simply need to rest in their pajamas without the pressure to perform or smile for an audience.
I’ve witnessed this truth in lives like that of Joni Eareckson Tada, who has navigated quadriplegia from a diving accident for nearly 60 years. In her experience, suffering has forged a deep and stable faith, one that sustains her and offers grace to fellow sufferers.
Forgiveness, similar to healing, requires time. It doesn’t mean excusing or forgetting wrongs; it’s about entrusting God with justice and mercy while trusting that He understands what we cannot. Forgiveness embodies faith, signified by gradually loosening our grip from around another’s neck.
Philip Yancey noted that grace flows to the lowest places. That’s where I often find it: in hospital corridors during lonely night shifts and in the long waits of waiting rooms. It doesn’t come from applause or attention, but from the quiet moments where pain and patience intersect.
The Best Model for Us
Our culture tends to distract us from grief, urging us to move swiftly past the sorrow, as if speed alone could save us. “Don’t dwell on the past,” people say. “Keep looking ahead. Just get over it.” But, some forms of hurt linger, transforming who we are and how we perceive the world—sadness, yes, but only if we resist fleeing from it.
The Bible tells us that Jesus was “a man of sorrows acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). If even God experienced sadness, then sadness itself cannot be inherently wrong. His provision for salvation does not occur overnight or within our preferred timeline; it unfolds gradually, often unseen, in God’s timing. When we hand our pain over to Him, it takes on a sacredness, a promise for restoration instead of destruction. In God’s hands, our grief is set apart as a sacred journey.
In the wake of trauma, our mission isn’t to elevate ourselves but rather to seek refuge. We’re called to draw near, to sit tightly winding the threads of silence, much like those mindful moments at Shiva. While we can only witness others’ heartaches, God steps into that very pain. The wounds in Jesus’ hands and side reflect His understanding of loss, rejection, and even death. His presence exemplifies how we should approach such realities.
Being alone with God doesn’t signify emptiness; it symbolizes a stillness where healing takes root. As the psalmist says, “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). In that calmness, we uncover what countless believers throughout history have realized—that even what is intended for harm, God can weave for good. He does not let our sorrows go to waste. By trusting in His timing, what begins as trauma shifts into a demonstration of grace.
