Grief doesn’t arrive quietly as often portrayed in the movies.
It crashes into your life while dinner still needs to be made, bills still need to be paid, and kids still need help with homework. It doesn’t pause your responsibilities. It multiplies them—right when your heart feels like it has nothing left to give.
After my husband Quintin died, I quickly learned that grief isn’t just emotional. It’s logistical. It’s paperwork and phone calls and decisions you never imagined making alone. Taxes. Insurance. Social Security. Retitling a car that used to have his name on it. Answering questions you don’t have the energy to process, let alone explain.
Suddenly, the full weight of our household landed squarely on my shoulders. The roles doubled. The margin disappeared. And my capacity? It felt like it shrank to zero.
There were days I could barely breathe. Nights I stared at the ceiling, wondering how I would survive this version of life—this life without him. I wasn’t asking for five years down the road. I was asking how I would make it through tomorrow.
And then… I found something that didn’t fix my grief—but gave me a way to live inside it.
A Poem That Became My Lifeline
When everything felt overwhelming—both the big things and the small things—I leaned on a few simple lines from an old Saxton poem. It was a poem treasured by widowed missionary Elisabeth Elliott, and it became treasured by me too.
I want to pause here, because this poem matters. I reference it in my Coffee Chat, and if you’re reading this while walking through grief, I hope you’ll sit with it the way I did.
“Do it immediately, do it with prayer,
do it reliantly, casting all care.
Do it with reverence, tracing His hand,
who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on omnipotence, safe ’neath His wing,
leave all resultings, do the next thing.”
Those last four words—do the next thing—changed everything for me.
Not because they made life easier.
But because they made life survivable.
When Grief Makes the Future Feel Impossible
In grief, the future feels cruel. Overwhelming. Unrealistic. People ask questions like, “How are you going to do this alone?” or “What’s your plan?”—and you want to scream because you can’t even figure out what’s for dinner.
That poem gave me permission to stop looking so far ahead.
I printed it out. Traced the words with colorful markers. Stuck it on my fridge where I couldn’t avoid it. And every day—sometimes every hour—I came back to the same question:
What is the next thing?
Not the whole list.
Not the future.
Not the years without him.
Just the next thing.
Get out of bed.
Eat breakfast.
Wake up my son.
Answer one email.
Make one phone call.
That’s it.
And somehow, by doing the next thing, I made it through hours that turned into days… days into weeks… weeks into years.
God Never Asked Us to Carry Tomorrow
Jesus understood this long before grief taught me.
In Matthew 6:34, He says:
“Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”
That verse hits differently when you’re grieving.
Jesus doesn’t deny that life is hard. He doesn’t minimize the trouble. He simply reminds us that today already carries enough weight—and we were never meant to shoulder tomorrow too.
Grief tries to make you solve everything at once.
Faith invites you to take life one step at a time.
Grace Shows Up in the Smallest Steps
There is a verse I clung to when my strength was gone:
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)
I didn’t feel strong. I felt broken. But grace met me in the smallness—in doing the next thing even when it felt insignificant.
And slowly, without realizing it, I began living into the role God had entrusted to me. Not because I wanted it. Not because I was ready. But because He was faithful.
If You’re Grieving Today…
If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of grief—barely functioning, overwhelmed by responsibilities, unsure how you’ll keep going—hear this:
You don’t have to do everything.
You don’t have to figure out the future.
You don’t have to be strong.
You just have to do the next thing.
And when you do, you’ll find that God is already there—steady, present, and carrying the weight you were never meant to hold alone.
💬 I’d love to hear from you in the comments:
What is one “next thing” you’re choosing to do today?
And if this spoke to you, please share it with someone who might need it too.
You are not alone. 🤍
