When Grief Leaves No Words

I write for a living.

I’ve written through the deaths of two of my children. I’ve written about grief, marriage, parenting, faith, disappointment, and losses I never imagined I’d experience.

But today, I don’t know what to write.

My dad died two weeks ago, and I’m tired.

Not just sleepy tired. I’m tired somewhere deeper than that.

Since Dad died, there’ve been things to do. So many things to do. There’s an obituary to finish, a funeral to plan, photographs to gather, family to contact, travel arrangements to make, food to order, and decisions I didn’t know needed to be made until someone asked me to make them.

Meanwhile, regular life didn’t stop because Dad died.

There’s still a newspaper to publish. There’re emails to answer and bills to pay. There’s laundry and grocery shopping and a family that still needs me. Wednesday still came, and with it, another Wednesday Letter.

Normally, I’d look for the story in all of this. I’d find something I’ve learned and try to wrap words around it. I’d search for the thread of hope running through the hard parts and follow it until I could share something encouraging.

Today, I can’t seem to do that.

And maybe that’s what I’m supposed to write about.

Maybe there’re times when grief simply leaves me without words.

I’ve experienced enough loss to know grief doesn’t follow a predictable pattern. I also know losing one person doesn’t prepare me for losing another. I might recognize some of the terrain, but each relationship leaves its own empty space.

Dad’s empty space is still new.

I’m preparing to travel to Idaho, where my siblings and I will celebrate the lives of both of our parents. Mom died last September. Dad died August 25. In a few days, we’ll gather in a park, tell stories, remember them, laugh, probably cry, eat lunch together, and somehow acknowledge that another chapter of our family’s story has ended.

I’m not sure I’ve caught up with that yet.

Maybe I don’t need to.

One of the things I love about Scripture is that God never seems frightened by human weakness. He doesn’t require polished prayers or carefully constructed sentences before He listens.

Romans 8:26 (NLT) says, “And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don’t know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words.”

I’ve read that verse many times. Right now, it means something different.

There’re moments when I don’t know what to pray. There’re times when “Help me, Lord” is about all I’ve got. And apparently, that’s enough.

The Holy Spirit can take it from there.

Maybe I don’t have to turn every painful experience into a lesson while I’m still living it. Maybe I don’t have to understand what God’s doing before I trust Him. Maybe faith sometimes looks less like having something profound to say and more like getting out of bed, doing the next thing in front of me, and whispering the name of Jesus when I don’t have words for anything else.

So, this week’s Wednesday Letter doesn’t have a tidy answer.

I’m grieving my dad. I’m tired. I’m preparing to say goodbye. And today, I don’t have many words.

But according to Romans, when I run out of words, God hasn’t run out of ways to hear me.

For today, that’s enough.