Walking Through the Garden of Grief
October 30th, 2024
Three months have passed since the day my sweet Orion left this world, but the ache of his absence has only grown sharper. If anything, the pain feels deeper now, raw and relentless, like an open wound that time refuses to heal. Every day brings new waves of grief, like pieces of a broken mirror, each reflecting a different kind of sorrow. Everywhere I turn, I feel his absence—a presence I can no longer hold in my arms but feel in every breath, in every beat of my heart.
The physical toll of grief is something I never imagined. My body feels so heavy, as if the weight of this sorrow has settled into my bones, draining me of strength. I struggle to sleep, haunted by memories, and even when I manage to rest, my dreams are weighed down with loss. My mind is caught in an endless loop of memories, wishes, and questions without answers. Spiritually, I feel stretched thin. Grief doesn’t come with instructions or an end date; it’s a journey that reshapes you, tightening its grip on your heart. I am exhausted in every way, yet in this fragile state, my faith has become my lifeline.
In moments like these, I find myself thinking of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He was facing a path of suffering that He knew He would have to walk, feeling the crushing weight of all the sorrow and anguish to come. In that moment, He fell to His knees and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me” (Matthew 26:39, NIV). I understand those words now in a way I never could have before. There’s a pleading in them, a desperation that echoes in my own heart—a plea to be spared the pain, to have this overwhelming sorrow lifted.
In my own moments of brokenness, I find myself praying those same words, asking God to take this cup of grief from me, to release me from the weight of missing my son. I feel the exhaustion that Jesus must have felt, as if my body, mind, and spirit are all crying out for relief. And yet, like Jesus, I know that sometimes the path we are given isn’t one we would ever choose. He could have walked away; yet He stayed. He didn’t turn away from the sorrow ahead of Him, even though it must have felt overwhelming.
In Gethsemane, Jesus showed such vulnerability. He opened His heart fully to His Father, unguarded and raw, knowing the immense pain He was about to face. It’s in those words that I see the depth of His humanity and feel that He understands mine. He knows what it is to feel helpless, to feel the ache of wanting things to be different, to wish for a way out. And even with all that, He said, “Yet not as I will, but as You will.” In that surrender, I see that trusting doesn’t mean understanding the path, but walking it, even when it’s filled with shadows.
I find myself turning those words over in my own heart, wondering what surrender looks like in my life, in my grief. To surrender doesn’t mean letting go of the love I have for Orion or the pain I feel in his absence. It means trusting that God is still here, even in the darkest moments, and that He understands every tear I shed. It means walking forward, one small step at a time, even when I feel like I have no strength left.
Gethsemane reminds me that it’s okay to feel weak, to feel the full weight of my sorrow, and to cry out for relief. Jesus Himself didn’t hide His pain or His longing for escape, and in His vulnerability, He showed me that I can bring all my brokenness to God too. When the grief feels unbearable, I find a strange comfort in knowing that Jesus has been here—that He knows the ache of suffering, and that His heart breaks alongside mine.
And when I think of Jesus standing before the tomb of Lazarus, I feel a closeness to Him that I never understood before. Jesus knew He would raise Lazarus from the dead; He knew the story wouldn’t end in darkness. And yet, He wept. The shortest verse in the Bible, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35), carries a depth that I feel with every fiber of my grief. Jesus, in His humanity, shared in the pain of those around Him, feeling the ache of their loss just as they did. I imagine Him standing there, His own tears falling as He saw the sorrow in Mary and Martha’s eyes, feeling their heartbreak as His own.
Before Jesus arrived, Mary and Martha had been waiting, watching their brother slip away, hoping with everything in them that He would come in time to save him. But Jesus delayed—not because He didn’t care, but because He saw a purpose beyond what they could understand. When He finally arrived, both sisters expressed the same heartbreaking words, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Their words are a mix of faith, love, and sorrow. They knew He could have saved Lazarus; they just didn’t understand why He didn’t come sooner. Those words echo in my heart as well—if only He had been there to protect Orion; if only He had saved him.
Yet, even as He heard these questions, Jesus did not dismiss their pain or rebuke their questioning. Instead, He joined them in it. He wept. In that moment, His tears were not only for Lazarus but for everyone who has ever felt the sting of loss. His compassion shows that sorrow is not something He shies away from but something He meets us in, shoulder-to-shoulder.
And then Jesus said to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die” (John 11:25). In those words, He offered a promise beyond the pain—a promise that death would not have the final say, that life goes beyond this world. It’s a promise I hold onto as I think of Orion, a promise that gives me hope that one day, I’ll be with him again, in a place where every tear is wiped away, and every ache is finally healed.
I hold onto the thought that Jesus’s tears were not just for Lazarus—they were for all of us who suffer, for every parent who’s held their child only to have to let them go. And in those tears, I am reminded that even when God’s plans are beyond my understanding, He remains present, grieving with me, and holding my pain in His own scarred hands. For as much as I weep for Orion, I know Jesus weeps with me, carrying my heartache in His infinite love.
And while my heart aches now, there is a quiet hope that sustains me. I hold onto the promise that one day, this sorrow will be swept away. One day, I will be with Orion again, in a place untouched by pain or loss, where every tear will be wiped away and joy will be made complete. This world is not the end; it’s a passage. Though I walk through shadows now, I look forward to the light that awaits, a reunion that transcends even my deepest grief. I imagine that moment often, a place beyond time and loss, where I’ll hold him again, not in memory, but in the fullness of forever. Until then, I carry him with me, etched into my soul, the brightest part of me waiting to be whole once more.
Though my steps may be slow, each one is held by a promise—that even in darkness, there is a light we’ll someday walk into fully.
I’d like to share this poem, The Garden of Grief, because it expresses the emotions that words alone can sometimes struggle to hold. It gently reminds me, and maybe you too, that even though the journey through sorrow feels endless, it’s woven with promises and moments of tender grace.
The Garden of Grief
In the garden where sorrow has made its bed,
I find myself walking where angels have tread.
Each step feels so heavy, the path overgrown,
With the weight of a love that I’ve never outgrown.
I think of my Savior, His own tear-streaked face,
When He asked for the cup to be taken in grace.
He knew what would come, yet He stayed for the cost,
To walk through the valley and rescue the lost.
This grief feels like thorns wrapped tight ’round my heart,
But I know that my God won’t let it tear me apart.
He kneels here beside me, His hands scarred and strong,
And whispers, “Dear child, I’ve been here all along.”
In this garden of grief, where the shadows loom deep,
He holds me in arms that know what it is to weep.
For He’s wept for a friend, and He weeps now with me,
As I wait for the day when my heart will be free.
When sorrow will fade like the night at the dawn,
And all that was broken will be forever gone.
So I walk through this garden, though my steps may be slow,
With hope in the promise of a love I will know.
This is Love. This is Healing. This is Grief.
