TheoloJeep

An open letter to parents walking through the unthinkable

Dear brother and sister,

There are some things in life that you cannot fully understand until you have lived through them yourself. Losing a child is one of those things.

There is a sorrow no parent ever expects to know, a road no parent would willingly choose to walk. Yet, through circumstances we would give anything to change, some of us find ourselves walking it. We never wanted this shared experience, and we would never wish it upon another family. But for those of us who have lost a child, there is an understanding that comes from knowing something of this particular heartbreak.

My heart aches that you now know it, too.

I wish you didn’t.

My wife and I know something of this road. When we lost our son, Isaac, we discovered that some sorrows are too deep for words. There is no explanation that makes the absence less painful, no carefully chosen sentence that makes everything better, and no returning to the life we knew before everything changed.

And the world keeps moving.

The sun rises. People go to work. Life carries on as though nothing has happened. Eventually, the phone calls become less frequent, the expressions of sympathy grow fewer, and the world returns to its familiar rhythm.

But you are still learning how to live in a world that no longer looks the same.

I want you to know that you are seen. Not only in these first days, when your loss is fresh and people are reaching out, but in the months and years ahead, when others may assume you are doing better. You are seen on birthdays, holidays, and ordinary days when a memory catches you off guard and reminds you that someone you love is missing.

You do not have to pretend to be okay for the sake of others. You do not have to reassure everyone that your faith is intact or find the right words to explain what you are feeling.

You are allowed to grieve.

Faith does not require us to deny the pain of death. Scripture gives us the laments of God’s people and shows us Jesus weeping at the tomb of Lazarus. Jesus knew He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, yet He still wept alongside those who mourned.

He did not rebuke their sorrow. He entered it.

Death is an enemy. It is not the way things were meant to be. And even though Christ has conquered death, we still feel its sting.

So grieve, dear friends. Speak your daughter’s name. Tell her stories. Laugh at the memories that bring joy, and weep over the ones that hurt. You do not dishonor God by acknowledging how deeply you miss her.

For those accustomed to caring for others, it can be especially difficult to become the ones who need care. But you do not have to shepherd everyone else through your own grief. Let people bring a meal, sit quietly beside you, pray when you cannot find the words, or simply remind you that they are there. You need not have answers, and you need not follow anyone else’s timetable for grieving.

There is no shame in being weak when sorrow is heavy.

I also want to tell you something about hope.

Not the kind that insists everything will be okay if you keep your chin up. Not the kind that pretends every tragedy comes with an explanation we can readily understand. I am talking about the hope we have because of Jesus Christ.

I do not know why God permitted this illness to take your daughter. And I will not pretend to understand the providence of God well enough to explain it.

Losing Isaac has taught me that knowing what Scripture says does not mean we will never struggle with sorrow. We can believe God’s Word, trust His sovereignty, and still wrestle with questions we cannot answer.

Faith does not mean having an explanation for everything. It means trusting the God who remains faithful even when we do not understand.

The Father who sent His Son into this broken world is not indifferent to suffering. Jesus Christ entered our humanity, wept real tears, endured real anguish, and went willingly to the cross to save sinners. What appeared to be death’s triumph became the means by which Christ secured its defeat.

And the tomb was not the end of His story.

The resurrection of Jesus Christ is God’s declaration that death does not have the final word.

Because Christ lives, those who belong to Him have a hope that reaches beyond the grave. We look forward to the day when He will return, the dead will be raised, death will be destroyed, and God Himself will wipe away every tear from our eyes.

That promise does not make today painless. It gives us something certain to hold on to while today hurts.

Christian hope does not demand that you stop longing for your daughter or pretend you understand God’s purposes. It reminds you that the grave cannot overturn Christ’s victory. And when your faith feels weak, remember that your hope rests not ultimately on the strength of your grip on Christ, but on His faithfulness to hold His people fast.

Some days, your prayer may be full of confidence. Other days, all you may manage is a whispered, “Lord, help me.”

Come to Him as you are. His grace is sufficient.

Brother and sister, I wish I could tell you that the road ahead will be easy. Grief has a way of surprising us. A song, a photograph, or an ordinary moment may bring the loss rushing back when we least expect it.

But you do not walk this road alone. You have a Savior who knows suffering and a family of believers who can pray with you, weep with you, and help carry the weight when it becomes too heavy.

My wife and I cannot take away your pain, but we can walk alongside you. We know something of this sorrow, and we know where our hope must rest—not in our ability to make sense of death, but in the One who has overcome it.

One day, mourning will end. One day, death will be no more. One day, what we now hold by faith will be seen in all its fullness.

Until then, we wait. We grieve. We pray. We cling to Christ. And we help one another along the way.

Dear brother and sister, I am so sorry for your loss. I wish our stories were different. But please know that you are loved, that you are not forgotten, and that you need not hurry through this valley.

Even here, in the valley of the shadow of death, our Shepherd has not abandoned us.

With love, prayers, and hope in Christ,

Your brother and sister in Christ

Soli Deo Gloria