It’s been over 20 years since my dad passed away.

Twenty years… which somehow feels impossible to say out loud.
Because part of me thinks, how has it been that long?
And another part quietly whispers, how has it only been that long?

That’s the thing about grief—it doesn’t follow a timeline.
And it definitely doesn’t RSVP.

You can be in the middle of a completely normal day…
laughing, driving, folding laundry, sipping your tea…
and then something small shifts.

A song.
A smell.
A memory.

And just like that, there it is.
That familiar ache. That lump in your throat you didn’t plan for.

I used to try to push it away.
Talk myself out of it. Stay busy enough to outrun it.

But grief has a way of gently insisting… “hey, I’m still here.”

And as much as I don’t always welcome it,
I’m starting to see that it’s not just something to survive—
it’s something God can use.

He’s used it to remind me that love doesn’t just disappear.
He’s used it to draw near in ways I might’ve missed otherwise.
He’s used it to soften me… to help me sit with other people in their pain a little longer, a little better.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted…” — Psalm 34:18

If you’re feeling that ache today—out of nowhere, uninvited—
you’re not doing it wrong.

And you’re definitely not alone.

Because even when grief pulls up a chair at your table…
God is already sitting there.

And maybe—just maybe—
that’s the quiet gift tucked inside the ache:

You don’t have to carry it by yourself.

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Reflection: 

When grief shows up unexpectedly, how do I usually respond—do I push it away or allow myself to feel it?

Is there a part of my grief I’ve been trying to outrun instead of gently acknowledging?

What would it look like to invite God into those unexpected waves instead of facing them alone?