A Season for Both Grief and Hope

It was Dec. 8, 1991. I was performing in a Christmas play at church when my dad got the call. My grandfather, his father, had passed away.

We finished up the performance at church, then headed home to prepare for the trip to Kentucky to be with my grandmother and extended family to celebrate my grandfather’s life.

I remember gathering in my grandmother’s living room sharing stories about this incredible man of strength and faith, having no idea that within 36 hours, I would awake on the morning of Dec. 10, 1991, to my uncle sharing news that my great-grandfather, my dad’s grandfather, had also passed. This was unthinkable. A father and son going to be with the Lord within 36 hours of one another. At thirteen years old, my heart simply could not hold that much finality. Two men. Two pillars. Gone. Granddad and Pappaw.

It was December — a month built for joy. Everything around us twinkled with lights and anticipation, but inside me, something had gone dim. The world kept going like nothing had changed, while our world suddenly felt knocked off its axis. Traditions that once brought laughter and peace now felt heavy under the shadows cast by empty seats and quiet spaces where voices should’ve been.

At thirteen, I didn’t know the language of grief. I didn’t know how to explain the ache or name the fog that followed me around. I only knew that something had been taken from me and from my family and nothing about the calendar seemed to care. Grief didn’t ask permission before showing up. It didn’t pause for Christmas. It didn’t wait until my heart was ready.

It wouldn’t be until years later that I realized something that feels both simple and staggering: grief doesn’t wait for the right time, because there really isn’t one. Loss rarely arrives when life is neat and manageable. It comes in waves. It shows up when the tree is up and when the suitcase isn’t unpacked. It looks different for everyone and is often invisible to the world around us.

Someone sitting beside you this season may be smiling through a storm you can’t see. They may be holding an unbearable weight behind rehearsed cheer or forced small talk. They may be navigating a holiday with an empty chair, a quiet phone, or a heart that still aches from a goodbye that came too soon.

I’ve come to learn, over time, that grief and faith can coexist. That sorrow doesn’t cancel out hope; sometimes it escorts you to it. God meets us in the pain with His peaceful presence.

So if December feels complicated for you…if it brings more tears than tinsel…I want you to know you are not alone. You are seen. You are loved. You are held by the One who holds all things together (Col. 1:17).

There is space in this season for both grief and hope. Let us have hearts and eyes to see beyond the merry greetings, to be tender and kind towards those carrying the weight of grief in this season, and to extend the hope of heaven to all.

Reflect:

What have you had to carry into December this year that no one else can see?

Where have you seen God’s nearness in the middle of your sorrow?

Who in your life might be carrying quiet grief this season — and how can you show them tenderness?

Pray:

Lord, be near to every heart quietly hurting this season. Sit with those who are missing someone. Heal what aches. Hold what feels fragile. And remind us — gently — that You are with us here, too.