Today, all I might be able to do… is just get out of bed.
And if I’m being really honest, even that feels like a lot.
I didn’t turn the camera on this morning because I wanted to. I turned it on because I felt called to. Because there is something inside of me that knows I’m supposed to share this part too. The scary part – the real, raw, uncomfortable part of grief that most of us would rather keep tucked away.
The part that doesn’t look strong.
The part that doesn’t tie up in a neat bow.
The part that aches. Oh friend the ache!
Grief is so strange, my friends. People always say it comes and goes, like waves. And maybe that’s true for some. But for me, it feels different.
It feels constant.
It feels like an ache that lives in your bones.
It’s like being homesick… for a home you can never go back to again.
Tomorrow marks two years since I lost my husband, Quintin. Two years. And this entire week has felt heavy in a way I can’t fully explain. Like my body remembers before my mind even has the chance to catch up.
And now, layered on top of that… I’m watching my mom slowly slip away.
There’s something about grief stacking on top of grief that takes the wind out of you. It’s not just one loss. It’s the weight of all of it, all at once.
And yes, I know where she’s going. I know she loves Jesus. I know she will be with Him. I know the truth.
But can I just say something that maybe you’ve felt too?
Knowing that… doesn’t make it easier here on earth.
We still feel it all.
The questions.
The ache.
The exhaustion.
The quiet moments that feel too loud.
From the outside looking in, I think people assume I’ve handled it well. I hear it all the time—“You’re so strong.”
And I always want to gently say… it’s not me.
It’s a supernatural strength.
Because if it were up to me, I would have crumbled a long time ago.
But I’ve also gotten really good at something I don’t talk about enough.
I’ve gotten really good at pushing people away.
I’ve gotten really good at compartmentalizing everything just to survive.
Putting one piece of grief in a box.
Another responsibility in a different one.
Another emotion somewhere else.
Just so I can function.
And then this morning… I woke up to a text from a friend.
Just a simple message:
“I’m so sorry. You’ve endured so much loss. You were on my mind.”
And something about that message… it broke through.
Because grief can feel so isolating. Like you’re carrying something no one else can see or understand. And when someone pauses long enough to say, “I see you… I’m thinking of you…”—it reminds you that you’re not as alone as grief tries to convince you that you are.
That ache you woke up with… someone else felt it too, even if just for a moment.
Grief is not just tears.
I think we get that wrong sometimes.
We picture crying as the main expression of grief. But what happens when the tears stop?
My mom said something to me recently that I haven’t been able to shake. She said, “This is crazy… I don’t even have any more tears to cry.”
And if you knew her, you’d know how significant that is. She has always been the kind of person who feels deeply. Joyful tears, sorrowful tears, empathy for others—she’s always expressed it through tears.
So for her to say she has none left…
That stopped me.
Because I realized something in that moment.
Grief doesn’t stop when the tears stop.
Sometimes your body is still crying… even when your eyes aren’t.
It’s the heaviness in your chest.
The exhaustion in your bones.
The ache that doesn’t have words.
It’s a full-body experience.
And I told her, “Mom… you are crying. Just not in the way you’re used to.”
And maybe that’s you too.
Maybe you’ve wondered why you don’t cry as much anymore. Maybe you’ve wondered if something is wrong with you.
There’s not.
Grief just changes shape.
And in the middle of all of this, I keep coming back to one simple truth:
It’s okay to not be okay.
I know I get on here a lot and try to offer encouragement. I try to point you to something hopeful, something uplifting.
But today… this is it.
This is the encouragement:
Life will have trials.
That’s not a maybe. That’s a promise.
Scripture tells us that.
And following Jesus doesn’t make us immune to pain—it just means we don’t walk through it alone.
Jesus Himself faced suffering He didn’t want.
He literally prayed, “Father, take this cup from me… but Your will be done.”
He understands.
And somehow… that brings me comfort.
Not because it takes the pain away, but because it means I’m not alone in it.
There’s this hat hanging in my garage—one Quintin wore. And on it is a cross with the words, “It is well with my soul.”
And every time I see it… I pause.
Because I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it’s there.
I think God knew I would need that reminder.
That even when everything in me feels anything but “well”… my soul can still be held.
That Quintin is okay.
That my mom will be okay.
That one day… I will be okay too.
There’s a song I keep playing on repeat lately—“You’re Gonna Be Okay” by Lauren Daigle.
And there’s a line that gets me every time:
At the end of our breath is the beginning of new life.
That’s the tension of grief, isn’t it?
The ending here…
is the beginning somewhere else.
And while that truth doesn’t erase the ache, it gives it somewhere to rest.
This world—it’s not the end.
It’s just a moment.
A vapor.
And one day, we will be reunited in what the old hym calls the “sweet by and by.”
But until then… we live here.
We feel here.
We grieve here.
And maybe—just maybe—we learn to carry both things at once:
The ache…
and the hope.
So today, if all you can do is get out of bed…
That’s enough.
If all you can do is take one step, whisper one prayer, or simply breathe through the weight of it…
That’s enough.
And in the middle of it all, I’m holding onto this:
That even with the ache in my bones… there is a supernatural joy that can sustain me.
Not because life is easy.
But because God is still good.
And somehow… even here…
He is still carrying us. 🤍
And if you’re in a season like this—where the thoughts feel heavy and the ache is hard to put into words—I want to gently encourage you to write it out.
Not perfectly, not polished… just honestly. Some of the most healing moments I’ve had have come from pouring my heart onto paper and bringing it before the Lord.
If you need a place to start, I created my Rooted in Him Prayer Journal as a safe space to process grief, cling to truth, and stay anchored in Him even on the hardest days. I’ll link it here for you—just know you’re not alone in this, and you don’t have to carry it all in your head. 🤍
Every morning, I wake up and share a bit of my heart on my socials. If you are not following me on instagram, you can do so HERE and in this season specifically I am sharing my grief journey. Praying that I can share hope in the midst of my pain and how you too can find purpose in the midst of your valley by When All I Can Do Is Get Out of Bed: Grief, Faith, and the Ache That Doesn’t Leave. For those who would like to take a listen on the you can do so below.
So thankful for your encouragement each day ❤️🩹 your support means the world to me.
Much encouragement and love- Lori💗✝️
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