Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him.-Job 13:15
How can it be? That a heart shattered by loss can still whisper hallelujah through its tears?
Grief comes in different forms. Today, it appears messy and shattered. I can’t seem to find the strength to get up. I’m in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, crying. Crying so hard I can barely breathe. How do I live life without my parents? Flashes of my mom’s face right before she died appear over and over again. She didn’t want to leave me and my sister. It’s like she knew the pain would be too much to bear.
Many say, “Your mom is with your dad now, in heaven.” Yes, that is true, but I often think she misses us. Just like I miss her. Within the emotions of missing her, I think, “How did this happen? “How in God’s green earth did my parents both die of cancer within five years of each other?”
How. Can. It. Be.
How can it be that the world keeps spinning when mine has stopped? How can it be that I wake up each morning to a reality I never wanted? That her house is empty, her voice is silent, her presence is gone?
How can it be my mom is gone?My mom held space for my emotions and identity as a wife and mom, but most of all, she grounded me. How does one person offer so much to one life that when they are gone, you feel like you are floating through life aimlessly like a helium balloon a child suddenly let go of? No one knows where it will go or how high it will go, and they especially don’t know where it will land.
This is me—not sure where I’ll go and don’t know where I’ll land. Grief does that–it weighs you down and clouds your mind, and life suddenly appears uncertain, leaving you feeling hopeless, not knowing what’s next.
Yet, I can’t stay here, lying on the bathroom floor in the fetal position. I somehow have to figure out how to walk through life with this giant loss and this weighty question, “How can it be?”
I’ve been here before. I thought I understood grief. I even wrote a book about it. I thought I knew all the signs, all the steps. And yet, here I am—undone, asking again, “How can it be, God?”
The Tension Between Grief and Hope
Grief is a complicated emotion. Each loss is different and unique. Culture tries to explain it away with advice thrown around like a game of dodgeball: Take naps. Eat right. Take your time—but not too much time. Exercise. Get fresh air. Journal. Talk about it—but not too much, or it’ll make people uncomfortable. Join a grief group. Don’t join a grief group because you might cry too much and be embarrassed.
The bigger question is, “How can it be that suffering and faith walk hand in hand—that grief and hope can exist in the same breath?”
Grief unravels what we thought would always be and what life would always look like. It’s the weight of love with nowhere to go, the silence where laughter used to live, the emptiness that reminds us of what was once full. And in that place, we ask: How can it be?
How can it be that grief and hope can exist in the same breath?
Job knew this tension well. A man stripped of everything—his family, his health, his livelihood—sat in the ashes of what once was. And yet, even in his rawest pain, he dared to say:
“Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him.” (Job 13:15)
I Don’t Want to Grieve Anymore
Maybe you feel this too. Perhaps you’ve asked this question in your own grief. “How can it be hope and grief coexist? When the diagnosis came. When the unexpected call shatters your world. When your soul aches to hear their voice, the losses have piled up, and you’re just plain sick of grieving, God is near.
I understand.
Job wrestled. He asked questions such as, “How can this be?” Like our culture, his friends threw answers at him, and he responded, “So how can you console me with your nonsense? Nothing is left of your answers but falsehood!” (Job 21:34).
Job never received a neat explanation, but he did encounter the presence of God. And sometimes, that is the only One who can hold the weight of our sorrow.
Even here. Even now.
In the middle of the pain, Job refused to let go of God’s unfailing love. Not because he understood but because he knew who God was. That knowing was enough to anchor him, and it’s enough to anchor us today through the pain.
As I lay on the bathroom floor with a blanket over my head, I remind myself that God is still here. He is still holding me. He is still faithful, even when the grief feels like it will swallow me whole.
And if you’re in this place too—asking how it can be?—I want you to know: You are not alone.
God sees your pain. He holds your sorrow. And even in this unimaginable loss, He is still your anchor.
So maybe how can it be? Isn’t a question to answer, but one to bring to the feet of Jesus.
So together, let’s take the next breath, the next step. One small moment at a time.
Because even when we can’t see it yet, hope is still here.
A Gift for You
If you’re walking through grief, I want to share something with you. My book, The Freedom to Feel, was written from the depths of my own loss, offering a path to healing for those who feel like they’re drowning in sorrow.
I’m offering a free chapter as my gift to you.
Download your free chapter here
You don’t have to carry this alone. Let’s walk this road together.
