Because of God's tender mercy, the light from heaven is always ready to break into our darkness, offering comfort to those sitting in the shadow of grief and guiding us gently toward peace. I hold onto this promise, but seeing that light is difficult. There is a famous saying floating around on social media: "Hard times either make you bitter or better." It's often presented as a simple, clear-cut choice between two paths as if I need to pick one, and I'm all set. But navigating pain and loss isn't that straightforward. Choosing a path in grief isn't a one-time decision; it's a commitment, a daily effort, a battle fought repeatedly. Every day, I'm brought face-to-face with the temptation to turn inward, to isolate myself, to let pain and bitterness take root as a way of shielding myself from more heartache.
I must ask myself whether I'll lean into despair or hold onto hope every moment. And I'm not convinced that there are only two outcomes to enduring hardship or loss. Bitterness indeed waits on the sidelines, eager to step in. It's easy to dwell on all the reasons my daughter shouldn't have died, to replay the injustices and sorrows that make up my family's story. In those moments, bitterness feels justified, tempting me to clutch onto every bit of evidence for why things shouldn't be this way. It's all too easy to build a case for why I deserve to feel this pain and why seeing others live happy lives is unfair. Bitterness is seductive, but it's not the only way. Every day, I choose to set it aside, a battle I must revisit with each new day.
But that other side—"better"—doesn't sit right with me, either. To call myself "better" somehow diminishes the depth of my grief. It implies that this pain brought something I was lacking, that I've come out of this experience improved as if the loss was a lesson that makes it worth it. But my daughter's absence isn't a lesson, and it's certainly not something I would go through again just to gain "better." Losing her isn't like training for a marathon or working toward a degree. I can't claim "better" because it turns my grief into a badge of achievement, setting a standard for others as if there's a right or wrong way to handle sorrow.
The truth is, I am not better—I am broken. I'm humbled by the realization that I am not in control and that there are no promises for how life will unfold.
I can't claim some victory of faith over doubt, nor can I say I've come out on the other side, lesson learned. Instead, I come to God with empty hands and a heart full of hurt, ready to receive His mercy. I choose love over bitterness, reaching out to this broken world from my brokenness and offering compassion to others who are hurt, too.
As it's written in 2 Corinthians: Blessed be the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our trials, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we've received from Him. This is where I find strength—sharing God's comfort, even as I search for peace.
