Throughout the day, I found myself turning over the weight of this sorrow, trying to understand how to live with it—because I don’t believe it will ever truly leave me. Grief like this doesn’t dissolve; it settles into the marrow of your being. And since I have no choice but to move forward, I feel the urgent need to find a way to function—as if I am not in pain.
I’ve spent most of my life trying not to be a burden. I’ve never wanted to get in the way, to bother people, or dampen anyone else’s joy. That’s part of why I’ve declined a few invitations lately—because the last thing I want is to be the quiet, sad person in a room filled with laughter and celebration. But I also know I can’t hide forever.
So, I’m crafting a plan. I’ll do what I’ve done so many times before: I’ll gather all these heavy feelings, tuck them into a box in my mind, and place that box high on a shelf—out of reach, but never gone. I can do this. I’ve always been good at it. Even now, even after the worst pain I’ve ever known, I have confidence that I’ll find a way to move through life without people ever seeing that I’ve become an empty shell of who I once was.
Because at my core, I am still me.
I am still kind. I am still thoughtful. I believe in generosity, in showing respect to others, in offering help when I can. I don’t care about status, possessions, or appearances. What matters most to me is simple human decency—and that part of me remains intact.
What I have lost is the ability to feel joy. The lightness I once knew is gone. I do not make plans for the future because I no longer believe there is something beautiful waiting ahead. I feel like a solitary piece from a matching set—salt without pepper, half of what once made something whole.
And more than anything, I fear I’ve lost my ability to love… or to be loved. I know that love comes from God, who created us to love and be loved in return.
“Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.” —1 John 4:7 (KJV)
I’ve never believed that God punishes people by giving them cancer or causing fatal car accidents. The truth is that the world is broken, and tragedy is part of being human. But this past month, my belief has been tested. I’ve asked myself, more than once, if I am being punished. Was Matthew taken from me as a consequence for something I did? If so, I cannot imagine what that could have been.
A war wages in my spirit—between the truth I’ve always known and the fear that haunts me in the dark: God does not punish us this way versus I am somehow paying for a debt I didn’t know I owed.
So now I ask myself—What can I do, here in the wreckage, to honor Matthew and please God? I don’t have the answers yet, but I think it starts with continuing to live in a way that reflects the love Matthew gave so freely and the faith he held so fiercely.
Healing won’t come all at once, or even soon, but perhaps each act of kindness, each moment of grace, each prayer whispered through tears is a step toward it. If I can find the courage to keep showing up—with gentleness, with integrity, with compassion, even when I feel hollow—then maybe I will not only be honoring Matthew’s memory, but also aligning my heart with God’s.
And maybe, just maybe, healing will begin to grow in that sacred space between grief and grace.
“It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.” —Lamentations 3:22-23
