I was punched in the gut by grief.

My friend died of a sudden heart attack last month. Nothing makes sense when you get a call like that. I was shocked. I gasped for breath with the phone in my hand—and the world seemed to spin under me. Time was blurry for hours. I felt confused. And then I woke up in a grey fog that lasted weeks.

He’s gone. The reality overwhelms me. Peter was like a father to me and so many others. It’s not fair. Why did such a good man have to die? I keep thinking: “We have more memories to make! I just want more time—another dinner together.” 

We had a small funeral, because of all the pandemic nonsense, and it was limited to only twelve folks. I sniffled and cried my way through the service. Unfortunately, “social distancing” restrictions were already in place, so we strangely embraced the space between us. Dozens showed up in their cars to honor their friend, and several made posters to share comforting words with the family near the graveside. It was a holy and solemn experience.

His death was nearly a month ago, and I still find myself irritable, angry, sad, and deeply rattled by the abrupt tragedy that stole our friend away. I hate death. I don’t understand. And it makes me ask a lot of questions. Why?!

And then—just as I was starting to heal. My phone rang again last Tuesday, and I was side-swiped by awful news again. Another friend had suddenly passed away. The river of grief turned into an ocean.

This time it was a hometown friend. I knew David throughout elementary school, high school, and college. A flood of memories took me under. We used to play baseball together. We stayed at camp together, we saw U2 in concert together, went to church together, and laughed a million times—together. How is he gone, too?

Grief comes in waves. Big and small.

As a Jesus-follower, and church-goer for most of my life—I’ve heard all the verses. I logically and rationally understand with my brain that eternity awaits us. I know I am supposed to cling to hope, (and I’m trying) but the sadness feels heavier right now. It feels black. I’m tired and worn down. Quarantine life has felt like a dream world too. Video sessions are exhausting, and I have tried (without success) to numb my pain. I’m eagerly awaiting a deeper breath.

As a therapist, grief arrives in my office without warning. When someone loses a loved one, it’s chaotic for a while. Every moment is different. There are tears and tissues, cuss words and crying. Old addictions pop up like weeds. And we experience: laughing, anxiety, deep sighs, depression, and the profound beauty of story-telling together.

Grief is messy like finger painting; we use every color of our emotional palette. The more honest and candid we are, the better. And that’s what I’m trying to do. Trying. To. Get. It. Out. 

It is violent. Grief grabs you like a rip tide. Sometimes we think we might drown. We frantically kick with our feet for solid ground—and hope for a small island. A beach with warm sand. Maybe there we’ll discover that His comfort and healing come in waves too. Through tears we’ll be washed, and finally we’ll kneel together on the land of His mercy. With courage, we’ll stand and smile at the sky again. 

Until then, we wait for the tides to change.