When Grief is Brought into the Light
I have to write about an experience I had at GriefShare last Friday evening. I’ve been pondering and praying about it all week and am excited to attend again tonight.
Looking back, it seemed like a living example of what Scripture describes when sorrow is shared among God’s people instead of being carried in isolation. It brought new meaning to Romans 12:15:
“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.”
I’ve been reflecting on what I witnessed ever since. Looking back, I almost wish I had lingered longer with the group before retreating to what I call, my secret place, to process it with the Lord.
I’m certain I witnessed a miracle.
And that miracle wasn’t that everyone’s pain disappeared. The miracle was that people stopped hiding it.
For most of the meeting, everyone was discussing and learning about grief by reviewing our homework and watching a video. Then, in those final moments, with only ten minutes left before closing, people actually began sharing their grief.
It was a profound difference. When a newcomer to the group asked everyone to share why they were there, he unknowingly invited the room out of information and into testimony. The conversation moved from ideas about loss to the actual stories of loss. In that moment, something shifted. Walls came down. Defenses relaxed. People became vulnerable.
Instead of presenting a single death, many began telling the story of a lifetime of losses, just as the newcomer had. It was as if the Holy Spirit was inviting each of us to release what we’d been holding inside for so long.
As I’ve been seeking the Lord to understand what I witnessed, I realize that before I even left the room, a verse from 2 Corinthians was already imprinted on my heart. The God of all comfort was on full display that evening.
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles…” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4)
Notice Paul doesn’t say God merely gives comfort. He calls Him “the God of all comfort.” Comfort is part of His nature. What I sensed in that room was the presence of a God whose character is to draw near to the brokenhearted as it says in Psalm 34:18.
Later that week, as I shared about what I considered a miracle at GriefShare during our ministry staff meeting, my pastor pointed me to the shortest verse in the Bible:
“Jesus wept.” (John 11:35)
He reminded me that Jesus wasn’t weeping without purpose. Standing before Lazarus’s tomb, Jesus saw the anguish of Mary and Martha and the grief of those gathered around them. Though He knew resurrection was moments away, He entered into their sorrow and wept with them.
That perspective gave me a deeper understanding of what I experienced in that room. As story after story was shared and tears began to flow, I saw more than human emotion. I saw evidence that Jesus understands grief intimately. He isn’t distant from our sorrow or impatient with our tears. He identifies with our pain and meets us in it.
Listening to the losses of others and feeling my own grief rise to the surface, I was reminded that the Savior who wept in Bethany is the same Savior who sits with us in our grief today. The comfort I sensed in that room wasn’t simply the comfort of people sharing their stories; it was the presence of Christ, the Man of Sorrows, drawing near to the brokenhearted.
I also thought of Paul’s words:
“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)
Something mysterious happens when burdens are shared. The grief itself doesn’t become smaller, but the person carrying it becomes less alone.
I felt less alone.
Paul says that when we carry one another’s burdens, we fulfill the law of Christ. In that room, no one could take away another person’s grief, but by listening, weeping, and bearing witness to one another’s stories, we helped carry burdens that had been borne alone for years. In a small but tangible way, we were loving one another as Christ has loved us.
Even though I rushed through my own share time in an attempt to be mindful of the clock, I was given permission that evening not only to share my grief, but to feel it. To fully feel it. To cry. To mourn. Because I never really had before, not about all of my grief.
Perhaps the most important verse that comes to mind is this:
“Therefore confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.” (James 5:16)
While James is speaking specifically about confession, there’s a broader principle here. Healing often happens in the context of honest disclosure. God designed us in such a way that bringing hidden things into the light creates space for healing.
We tend to think healing comes first and vulnerability follows. But I’m finding Scripture often presents the opposite pattern. Vulnerability creates the environment where healing can begin. It opens our hearts to the work the Holy Spirit has been longing to do.
I remembered a video we share in a class I facilitate several times a year where Brené Brown teaches about vulnerability. Though she approaches the subject from psychology rather than theology, one of her central observations is that vulnerability is the birthplace of connection.
In many ways, that aligns with what Scripture has taught all along. Healing begins when we stop pretending and allow ourselves to be honestly known.
As I’ve continued reflecting on that evening, a passage from How People Grow by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend has helped me make sense of what may have happened.
They describe God not only as Creator, but as the One who restores life to places that have grown lifeless. He brings renewal to what has been wounded, buried, frozen, or forgotten.
That image came to mind as I thought about the stories shared that night. Many of us entered the room carrying losses that had been hidden away for years—grief tucked into the corners of our hearts or buried beneath busyness, self-protection, addiction, or simply the passage of time. Yet as people spoke honestly, it seemed as though God was gently bringing those places into the light.
Cloud and Townsend also point to God’s original design in the Garden. Before sin entered the world, Adam and Eve lived in openness before God and one another. Scripture says they were naked and felt no shame. There was no hiding or pretending—only vulnerability, trust, and intimacy. People could be fully known without fear.
As I listened to person after person share their deepest losses, I couldn’t help but think of that picture. For a brief moment, a room full of grieving strangers stopped hiding. The masks came off. We became known through our stories, our tears, and our shared humanity.
Perhaps what felt so sacred was that we experienced a glimpse of the kind of community God intended—not perfection, but genuine connection; not answers, but presence; not fixing one another’s pain but allowing ourselves to be known within it.
And perhaps that is where healing begins.
For years, addiction served as my protection from pain. It allowed grief to remain frozen, untouched, and inaccessible. Yet in that room, surrounded by other grieving people, I experienced sorrow without being destroyed by it.
I discovered something my heart may not have known before:
Grief is survivable.
Memories can come.
Tears can flow.
Losses can be named.
And Christ remains present.
I can’t help but wonder if what happened was similar to what David describes:
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” (Psalm 23:4)
The promise isn’t that there’s no valley. The promise is that we don’t walk it alone. And so, the deeper question I’m exploring is this:
What happens when a room full of grieving strangers choose vulnerability over self-protection?
From my experience last week, the answer seems to be this:
The Holy Spirit creates a sacred space where people discover they’re not alone, where buried grief is finally given permission to breathe, and where the God of all comfort meets His children through the stories and tears of others.
That’s so much more than group therapy. That’s the Body of Christ bearing witness to one another’s pain and, in doing so, making visible the comfort of God.
This brings me to Isaiah 53:4:
“Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…”
Perhaps that’s what I’m beginning to understand. Jesus doesn’t merely observe grief. He enters into it, carries it, and comforts us within it.
This realization is changing grief from something I once feared into something I can bring honestly before Him and others, trusting that where Christ is present, healing can begin.