Introduction
My guess is that you came to this book with your own story of loss. You knew that a book about grief would not be light reading. But let me assure you—this book is hopeful. My goal is to help you move through loss instead of getting stuck in it, to experience grief as an entry into intimacy with God and others. Our world moves at a fast pace. Our days are packed with deadlines, full calendars, and the constant pressure to keep moving. But beneath all the activity, our souls are weary. We may not call it by name, but there is a disease quietly affecting our lives—the disease of hurry. And it is slowly draining us.
When grief touches our story, hurry becomes especially dangerous. Loss is not something we can put on the schedule or push our way through. Sorrow does not fit neatly between meetings or on the margins of a busy day. Grief requires more of us than we often want to give. It asks us to slow down. To pay attention. To sit with our pain instead of running from it.
Yet slowing down is hard. We are tempted to fill our emptiness with distraction—to busy ourselves so we don’t have to feel the ache of disappointment. But grief will not be hurried or rushed. It comes in waves, and it invites us into a slower, deeper way of living, if we will let it.
When we slow down long enough to face our pain, we often discover that grief feels like a kind of wrestling deep within. It is not neat or orderly. We wrestle with our questions, with our sorrow, and sometimes even with God Himself.
The Scriptures give us a picture of this in the life of Jacob, who spent a long night by the river in a desperate struggle with a man. His story shows us that God does not turn away from our wrestling. In fact, He meets us there—in the dark, in the silence, and in the struggle—and it is there that we become strangely strong.
Genesis 32 tells the story of Jacob returning home after twenty years away, dreading a reunion with his brother Esau. Their relationship had been broken from the beginning—two brothers wrestling in the womb, fighting for position at birth, and competing for the blessing of their parents. Jacob, whose name means “deceiver,” lived much of his life striving, grasping, and scheming. Then, on the eve of seeing Esau again, he found himself alone, fearful, and grieving the damage of his past.
That night, he wrestled not only with a man but with God Himself. By morning, Jacob walked away with a limp, a new name, and a new identity. His pride and self-reliance had died. What lived was the blessing of God’s presence and favor. The limp was not a punishment but a reminder: God’s strength is found in weakness.
The prophet Micah later wrote, “I will make the lame my remnant” (Micah 4:7). The same word used for Jacob’s limp is used here. God takes the broken and the bruised, the burdened and the bereaved, and calls them His people. Instead of being marked by power and control, His people are marked by humility and dependence.
This theme is carried into the New Testament. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus describes His people as poor in spirit, merciful, hungry, and in mourning. These are not traits of worldly strength but of holy weakness. In the humility of grief, we lay down control and experience God’s grace.
It is a strange strength that God gives to those who grieve well. When we feel weak, we can become strong.
Jesus shows us the fullness of this surprising truth. He came as a baby, not a dictator. He chose fishermen and tax collectors over rulers and elites. He healed the hurting instead of propping up the powerful. And in the greatest paradox of all, He chose a criminal’s cross instead of a king’s throne. The cross, an ancient symbol of shame, became the means of salvation. And then, the fulfillment of hope came from an empty tomb.
You may be picking up this book in the midst of a deep loss. My heart breaks with you. I want you to know that you are not alone. And I am inviting you to travel with me to recover a lost discipline—the discipline of grief.
Together, we will learn to slow down, to wrestle honestly, and to discover the strange strength that God gives in sorrow. We will begin by naming our struggle with control and growing in self-awareness, learning to see our story with honesty. From there, we will name our losses and wounds, make space for anger and sadness, and eventually take the courageous steps of forgiveness. Along the way, we will pause with Scripture, letting God’s Word guide and steady us.
Grief is not the end of your story. In God’s hands, it becomes a place of transformation and strength. It is time for us to recover the lost discipline of grief.
Part One
Learning to Grieve
Lester was my best friend in fourth grade. I’m not sure why Lester and I connected, but we did. He was not well-liked, probably because of the odor that followed him. Lester’s family was poor—really poor. I got used to Lester’s odor. It didn’t seem to bother me.
Our teacher, Ms. Burnette, knew of Lester’s situation. One day, Ms. Burnette took a doll, a basin filled with water, and a washcloth, and demonstrated to our class how to bathe ourselves.
“Now, children,” said Ms. Burnette, “you take this washcloth and rub it under your arms, behind your ears, and get yourself real clean.”
At the time, I wondered why she was doing a bathing lesson between lunch and recess. Looking back, I see that she was indirectly helping Lester understand proper hygiene. But even after Ms. Burnette’s bath demo, I don’t remember it making a difference.
My family knew of Lester’s situation too, because my dad was a small-town pastor. Many of my friends’ parents worked at the paper mill. Life in Thomaston, Georgia, was defined by which shift you worked and how you had to scrape by to pay the bills. Lester’s family had no running water, and the house sagged on one side. We’d sometimes take clothes and food over, and I remember one Christmas delivering wrapped presents and a holiday meal.
Lester’s family often visited the city dump—not to drop off trash but to pick through what others had left behind. They found clothes, furniture, household goods—that was part of how they survived. I can still picture the red clay road leading up to the rusty green dumpsters. Sometimes, my dad would let me sit on his lap and steer our brown station wagon to the dump. I loved these trips—until the day we got the call about Lester.
On that Saturday, tragedy struck. Lester’s dad, backing up their vehicle, didn’t see him. The accident took Lester’s life. The city dump became the scene of death. At nine or ten years old, I didn’t have the emotional capacity to make sense of such a tragedy. I remember my parents telling me and Ms. Burnette breaking the news to our class. My memory of that day is blurry—but the one of Lester’s visitation is not. Dad felt it best for me to attend the visitation the night before the funeral. I recall walking up to the casket. It was open, and I’m not sure that was wise. The accident had caused tremendous head trauma. One of my best friends was gone, and his body lay before me.
I’m typing this some forty years later, and it still grips me. This was my first brush with death and with grief. Most kids don’t know how to grieve. To be honest, most adults don’t either. Most of us have limited understanding of and experience with grief. But when loss enters our stories, we need to grieve in order to heal. Grieving is essential for healing after loss. There is no side-stepping it.
Let’s catch our breath for a minute. What was your first memory of grief or loss? Was it a person, a relationship, or something else? Hold that memory as we take these first steps together.
HOW DO I GRIEVE?
As a pastor and counselor, I’ve walked with many people through loss. It’s a privilege because pain sharpens our senses. It makes us more attuned to God and to the deeper meanings of life. Through the years, one question has surfaced again and again: “Randy, how do I grieve?” It sounds strange that we’d need to ask how to grieve. After all, grief, like breathing, should come naturally. And yet, we don’t know how to grieve well—especially today, when everyone is in a hurry. Our lives rarely have space for us to slow down and work through losses.
Instead, we distract ourselves to avoid pain. We medicate with addictions, bury ourselves in busyness, or look for escapes that only deepen the wounds. But grief is not something to avoid. Grief is a necessary discipline for growth. And I use the word “discipline” intentionally. As followers of Jesus, we practice disciplines like prayer, Bible study, fasting, worship, and community. What if grief belongs on that list too?
Disciplines create space for us to slow down, connect with God, and receive grace. Grief, when rightly understood, is one of the most important disciplines because it slows the soul. It prevents us from rushing ahead without processing what’s been lost. Grief is the doorway to what comes next. Without it, we get stuck, our hearts stay small, and our growth is stunted. Grief is a lost discipline that we must recover.
There are many books about grief. Many of them are valuable, offering insights into the biblical and psychological aspects of mourning. But this book is different. It’s not just about grief—it’s about how to grieve.
Loss is never planned, and it always requires grief. When life doesn’t go the way we hoped, there’s an invitation to grieve. This prevents the loss from defining us and instead allows it to help us grow.
Let’s widen our perspective on grief. Grief isn’t just an event or something we do—it’s a posture of the heart. It’s an act of vulnerability and surrender. Grief is our way of saying, “This isn’t what I had planned. I surrender control. I release my need to make things right. God, I submit to Your way, Your plan.” It is a gracious acceptance of what we cannot control or change.
We must discipline ourselves to grieve well if we are going to grow well. Without the practice of grief, our intimacy with God and others will be limited. Grief is the ongoing work of absorbing a loss or disappointment. It’s not something we do once and move on. Grief invites us to go deeper rather than remain on the surface. To grieve lightly is to keep grace at arm’s length. To grieve deeply is to open our hearts wide to God’s grace. And when His grace comes, our hearts expand in ways we never imagined.
WHAT DO YOU NEED TO GRIEVE?
As we get started, it will be helpful to name a loss you need to grieve. It may be the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship, a struggle with addiction or sin, or a mental health challenge such as depression or anxiety. Take a moment to identify which of these speaks to you so we can focus our time together on your specific loss.
Death
The death of a family member or friend leaves a giant hole in a person’s life. While others move on with their schedules, an ache of absence remains in your life. Whether it occurred years ago or more recently, the loss stays with us.
After Lester’s death, I lost my Uncle Randy (my namesake) to leukemia. Then, two grandparents passed. More recently, my oldest brother, Ty, died at the age
