Four Ways to Walk through Grief

“Now the woman was left without either her young men or her husband” (Ruth 1:5 MSG).

Widowed and bereft of her sons, Naomi found herself walking a shocking new path. She lived the story none of us would sign up for. I’m not widowed, nor have I outlived any of my children. But I have had the life I thought I would live suddenly pulled out from under me.

When our oldest son was just shy of a year old, we learned that he has a rare and complex genetic disorder, one with no cure and too many questions. Suddenly, the life of raising a child with significant special needs loomed large in front of me. And grief crashed down.

“This is a bitter pill for me to swallow . . . God has dealt me a hard blow,” Naomi lamented to her two widowed daughters-in-law (Ruth 1:13). In her candidness, Naomi was not afraid to be real about God or the painful reality she had to live out. In contrast, as I reeled under the diagnosis for our son, I found it difficult to be candid with God, because I thought he had robbed me of a life I was owed. Instead of lamenting, I turned to self-sufficiency, which only seemed to intensify my grief.

Waking up the morning after the diagnosis, grief smothered my heart. That was surely a crazy dream, right? How could that blue-eyed, red-curly-headed baby of mine be anything but perfect? I could barely look my husband in the eye, and I felt anxiety creeping up my throat. Needing time to wrap my mind around our new reality, I mentally pushed people away. I was too fragile.

“When Naomi saw that Ruth had her heart set on going with her, she gave in. And so the two of them traveled on together to Bethlehem” (Ruth 1:18–19).

Saying yes to community when you are deep in grief is hard. Naomi “gave in” to Ruth, maybe because Naomi was too drained to continue pushing her away. Sometimes grief wears us down enough to receive small gifts of grace that God knows we need, even when we feel like those gifts are the last thing on earth we want.

In the days and weeks following my son’s diagnosis, friends texted, called, and messaged us to reassure us they were with us, that they loved our sweet baby, that they were confident that God would carry us through. Our people insisted on showing up for us with their small gifts of grace that reminded me no matter how alone I felt, I wasn’t. Though text messages and calls went unanswered, those small graces were often what helped keep me afloat in the early tidal wave of grief.

Eventually, my grief found its place alongside the daily rhythms of life because grief doesn’t evaporate. Rather, our hearts and lives grow in order to encompass it. Sometime after summer rolled into fall and fall lost her leaves and winter stretched out long and deep, my heart peeked out just an inch from its cocoon. In much the same way that Naomi was drawn to return to her people in Bethlehem, I began to sense that I couldn’t hide forever—I was probably going to need community for the journey. We needed to find people who understood us and our reality. Through a providential Google search, I discovered a small community of families whose children had the same diagnosis, and these families gathered every summer to learn about the latest medical research, to meet with specialists, and most of all, to support one another.

“She had heard that God had been pleased to visit his people [in Bethlehem] and give them food” (Ruth 1:6–7).

Naomi, in her grief, returned to a place of comfort and provision. While I couldn’t return to my childhood home after the diagnosis, discovering community gave me a surge of hope. But as the day drew closer to when we’d finally meet these families face-to-face, dread started building. How would face people who bore the same grief when my grief still felt so heavy?

With knocking knees, we went to meet this beautiful community of families because, like Naomi, I timidly hoped that God’s provision would meet me there. As often as we’ve been able through the years, we’ve returned to this community where, bit by bit, we’re being graced with perspective, courage, and hope for this life that’s so very different from what we envisioned. I’ve learned that there’s beauty in this unexpected life and that there is much-needed respite in community.

Grief is complex and nuanced. But perhaps these four gentle reminders will help you navigate uncharted waters.

Give yourself permission for space to process. Grieve how life has changed. Offer candid lament.
Find one simple truth you can breathe in and out. The words “God saw that it was good” from Genesis 1 were what I kept coming back to when the grief would surge. Just like God created the sun and the sea and stars, God created me, my sweet boy, and our family and he “saw that [we were and are] good.”
Invite safe people to be present with you in your grief.
Accept gifts of love, presence, and support from a community that understands you.

If you’re newly walking in grief, I pray that God will meet you with small and large gifts of grace, courage to tend to your hope, and a community to be his hands, feet, and heart to you.

Allison Byxbe is a writer, Ann Voskamp intern, editor, and journaling instructor from South Carolina. A lover of the beach, the stars, and the lattes her husband makes, her favorite things to write about are motherhood, special needs parenting, mental health, grief, and faith. You can connect with her over at Writing Is Cheaper Than Therapy, Facebook, and Instagram.