11/15/2025
I used to think grief was a single thing…a moment, a funeral, a wave that would pass if I waited long enough. But now I know better. Now I know it has bones. A spine. A heartbeat. A body.
Grief is a living thing.
It wakes when I wake. It lies beside me at night. It follows me into the grocery store, into the silence of Sunday mornings, into celebrations where one seat always stays empty.
The Eyes of a Griever
They see the world through layers, like stained glass fractured by a storm. Every joy is tinged with a shadow. Every laugh carries a sigh behind it. My eyes search for what isn’t there anymore. I catch myself looking for the shape of their silhouette in doorways, for the sound of their footsteps in quiet halls. I see them in strangers and in dreams. My eyes are tired from scanning crowds for a face I’ll not find.
The Hands of a Griever
They fumble with memory like it’s fragile. They clutch old photographs. They shake when no one is looking. They ache to hold what has slipped beyond reach. I find myself reaching out in the dark, grasping for the ghost of what once was. And sometimes, I hold grief so tight in my hands, I forget how to receive anything else.
The Heart of a Griever
It beats, but with a limp. It has learned to hold both life and loss in the same rhythm. It remembers birthdays and anniversaries, not with celebration, but with silence and tears. It has grown familiar with the hollow echo of “what if” and “why.” And yet—it keeps beating. It whispers hope when my mind forgets how to believe. It breaks, yes. But it breaks open.
The Voice of a Griever
It is quiet. Often unheard. Sometimes, it roars in a locked car or in a shower where no one can see the sobs. It whispers prayers that are less like speeches and more like groans. It sings old songs with trembling lips. Sometimes it says nothing at all, and the silence becomes its own language. A holy hush that only heaven can interpret.
The Feet of a Griever
They are heavy, but they move. Some days they stumble, other days they crawl. But always forward. Always one step closer to healing, even when I don’t feel it. I have learned that some of the bravest things I’ll ever do are done with shaking knees and blistered soles. Because healing doesn’t always look like dancing. Sometimes, it just looks like standing.
The Spirit of a Griever
The part of me grief could not destroy. Weakened? Yes. Crushed? Almost. But still, it burns. Dim, but steady. Like the wick of a candle refusing to be snuffed out by the winds of sorrow. I have met God most honestly here, in the wreckage. Not in the fixing, but in the holding. Not in the answers, but in His presence.
I have learned to breathe again. Not as I did before, but with intention. I inhale the ache and exhale surrender. I breathe through the cracks and trust that even broken things can still carry breath. Still carry beauty. Still carry Him.
This is the anatomy of a griever.
Bone and ash.
Hope and hollowness.
Ache and resurrection.
This is me.
Still here.
Still believing.
Still grieving.
Still becoming.
And somehow, that is holy.
I’m fearfully and wonderfully His, even here.
