Grief: The Ache That Lingers

Grief is like an ache in your soul. It’s not the sharp pain of stubbing your toe—it’s the throbbing that follows. It’s not the hammer blow to your thumb—it’s the lingering tenderness after you’ve bandaged it. Grief is the dull, relentless ache that stays long after the moment of acute pain has passed.

My Encounter with Grief

My dad passed away six months ago from complications with cancer, dementia, and Alzheimer’s, among countless other things. From Thanksgiving 2024 to March 2025, as the poet said, he “did not go gentle into that good night.” He raged against the dying of the light. Those last months were filled with confusion, anger, and heartbreak. He often didn’t know who we were or where he was. Mom and I still carry the bruises—not on our bodies, but on our hearts.

I remember our last real conversation in January. A doctor had adjusted his meds, and for a brief, miraculous moment, he was himself again—maybe it was what they call “terminal lucidity.” We talked about how he’d landed in the ER after nearly fighting off the entire Memory Cottage staff and even managing to karate-kick me to the floor. He felt terrible but I chuckled and said, “Don’t feel bad, Dad—I was kind of proud of you. You’ve still got it!”

He pulled me close, tears in his eyes, and said, “Matt, I’m so sorry. I love you so much.” That was our last embrace—the strongest hug I’ve ever felt. 

Over the next month, he seemed to rally, but then declined suddenly. Mom called on a Tuesday morning and said: “If you want to see him before he passes, you better come now.” I couldn’t get a flight until Wednesday morning. I thought about jumping into my car and driving the eighteen hours to Iowa. To this day, I still wish I had. The last thing I wanted was for dad to die alone. By the time I arrived, it was too late. He passed in his sleep at 6 a.m. on March 12, 2025.

Since that day, grief has become an unwelcome guest. Grief barged through the front door of my heart, kicked off his shoes, raided the fridge, and planted himself in my living room. He refuses to leave despite my protests. Like many of you, I’m learning how to live with him.

I’d give anything to see my dad again, for one more phone call, one more hug, one more “I love you, Matt,” or “Tell the kids Grandpa loves ’em.” It’s the finality that makes this thing we call grief so painful. 

What Is Grief?

Grief is the pain of love separated. It’s your soul protesting the loss of something deeply good and right now gone. Jesus tasted this grief. At the tomb of His friend Lazarus, John writes, “Jesus wept.” That makes grief not just human but holy. As man, Jesus grieved the loss of a friend. As God, He grieved with hope—His tears pointing to resurrection and restoration. 

Why Does Grief Hurt So Much?

Grief is cyclical—like the ocean’s tides. Some days I can talk about my dad calmly; other days, a song can make me wilt into tears during a dance party with my girls (they’re wonderful comforters, by the way).

C.S. Lewis once said, “The pain now is part of the happiness then.” The greater the love, the deeper the ache. Every memory—playing catch, watching movies, road trips—now throbs like a stubbed toe or crushed thumb.

Death is no friend. Paul calls it “the last enemy” (1 Corinthians 15:26). It’s an intruder in God’s good world. My heart still reaches for my dad—for his voice, his smile, his presence—but there’s no place for my affections to land. That’s the sting.

What Does God Do With Our Grief?

He draws near. “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted” (Psalm 34:18). He doesn’t observe from a distance; He enters our pain. He knows the ache because He has felt it.

He conquers our enemy. Jesus came with fierce determination—to conquer an enemy we could never defeat. Our battle against sin, hell, and the grave isn’t a fair fight; it’s like bringing a Nerf gun to a nuclear war or a pigeon racing a jet engine. We were hopelessly outmatched. That’s why Jesus came. In dying, He conquered death. In losing His life, He won ours. He came to die so we could truly live.

He promises restoration. “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle” (Psalm 56:8). Not one tear is wasted. And one day, “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Revelation 21:4). Not stop them—wipe them, personally.

I imagine that day in eternity: my face in the dirt, knees bent, cheeks wet, when Jesus kneels beside me, lifts my chin, and wipes my tears away. Hope floods my heart—death defeated, sin conquered, hell sealed. And among the crowd of the redeemed, I see my dad—whole, clear-eyed, strong again. We embrace like we did in that hospital room.

What Now?

I picture my dad sailing away. As his ship disappears beyond the horizon, I ache at the finality of it all, that I can’t see him anymore. But here’s what I know is true, on the far shore, there’s a shout: “Here he comes! He’s home!”

My dad is home. His pain is gone, his mind restored, his joy complete. He’s seen the King. He’s joined the song of heaven. And while part of me is jealous, I know my time will come soon enough. Until then, I want my life to count—for the One who made our reunion possible.

Jesus died so my dad could live.
And one day, because of Jesus, I’ll see him again. So I grieve but I do not despair. I’ll see him again because of Jesus.