A Grieving God.

Observations on trauma, lament, and the sacred work of bearing witness

TW: Descriptions and situations involving self-harm and suicide.

I wrote this while processing an especially difficult case from a few years ago. I wasn’t sure if I should share this piece, but felt like maybe it would be useful in some way.

All identifying and story details have been modified to comply with HIPAA guidelines.

Photo by Jake Espedido on Unsplash

It was supposed to be another evening.

As was the norm, the hospital was near full-capacity for this time in November, nurses and doctors and aides floating around fluorescent lights as the sick and suffering sought refuge from billows of snow and ice and danger looming just beyond. On nights like these, it wasn’t unusual for the one on call to pack an overnight bag, utilizing the Chaplains’ quarters to always be near, ready for the pager to buzz. And buzz it did. Cars crumpled upon slicked ice, congested airways and mucus from RSV and the flu present like a shadow, arteries and cardiac muscles strained and calloused under sequestered moonlight. The eyes of those who met my own all had the same, paralyzing look: shock.

No one expects devastation’s arrival. Suffering’s embrace. Surely not I, nor you, nor anyone else. It is easy to feel as though we have some sort of fantastical immunity, hunkered down within cushioned walls while tragedy reaches only those who happen to be on the outside.

Not us, surely not us.

And that is all good and fine until alas the protective guise is shaken off its hinges, stripped from the fragile frame that once were thought to be a sturdy foundation. You see, tragedy does not discriminate. Pain does not have a preference.

A brisk voice filled the entire hospital, like words ushered from God in the heavens: “Attention, attention. Pediatric, level one trauma to the Emergency Department. Room 2B.” There were footsteps ascending a stairwell. Doors flung open in the nearby trauma bay. Warm air filled the hallway. A nurse dropped her pen. The room held its breath. One, two, three doctors poured in with scattered documents and disheveled hair to give report.

“Subject is a twelve year old female. Suicide attempt. Patient was found by mother. ETA, three minutes.”

Blood ran colder than the night. A garage opened and a stretcher thundered in surrounded by EMT and badges and sweat. An arm dangled from one side, fingernails painted poppy-pink. Scarlet locks covered a sickly blue face.

She reminded me of my daughter.

The team got to work. Everyone had a role: oxygen masks and IV needles and EKG murmurs and medications I’ve never even heard of while I whispered prayers from the doorway; a neon-yellow CHAPLAIN sticker dangling from my chest. The charge nurse pulled my gaze as he approached swiftly. “Family is enroute. I need you with them. We’ll hold things here.”

I half walked, half shuffled to the front doors, stricken by fear, stricken by what awaited them in the trauma bay. No one is ready to meet parents ripped open by grief. Especially the grief of potentially losing a child. I met them in the lobby of the ER, the mother trembling and the father a face of stoic terror. There were no words shared, only thoughts screamed into silence. Seconds felt like hours. An existential pendulum swing. A world narrowed to the tilt of a head, the flash of panicked eyes.

A tall, cleanly shaven doctor in a wrinkled white coat entered the consult room. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I’m one of the doctors here. Your daughter is in very, very critical condition. Right now, she is showing a steady heartbeat, but we are considerably worried about hypoxia from poor cerebral perfusion during the incident. It is yet to be seen how significant the brain damage is, though we would expect quite substantial debilitation or likely death from such an incident. I’m so incredibly sorry. If you’d like to see her, now would be a good time.”

It was in that trauma bay that we gathered, broken hearts, weary souls, and withered hopes. Clinging to a desperate plea for healing as her body plead for life. A desire to help, to control, to fix ever-escaping, like trying to grasp at the wind. I fidgeted with my hands nervously, picking a spot until it bled, trying to find words, anything to hold onto at all to bring solace and give an answer. There was nothing. We knelt near her head as the doctor’s words fell like a sledgehammer on ice. Brain dead.

She was gone. A young girl taken too soon.

Bullied at school. Bullied online. Trying to take matters into her own hands, she resolved that she had to be the problem. Which couldn’t have been further from the truth. A life lost, a grieving family, a grieving God.

I’ll never forget her. She was as radiant as the sun. A streak of red hair like the dawn upon the morning horizon, ushering in the vibrance and life of a new day. I learned she loved to write. She went to church. She sang the hymns. She loved to dance. She loved life. Then a sinister whisper crept in. Lies piled up until she believed them. Her parents never knew. There were only subtle signs; a closed door, subtle withdrawal, looming apathy. No one expected this.

---

I felt so lost that night. My faith shuttered on its hinges. For a minute I allowed myself space to go to the office, on my knees alone praying that God would breathe life into her, offer a miracle. Yet no physical miracle came — the result was already etched into the curvature of time, like the groove of a pen pressed against eternity’s ledger.

Yet, even in that place was the weeping God, present in the ache of the parents. We gathered and lamented at the bedside, lifting prayers and petitions, grieving not only what was lost, but what could have been. At one point, the mother of the patient sang Amazing Grace. It did not take away the sorrow — not at all — but in every tear, in every hurt, in the inexplicable and overwhelming sorrow it was as though Jesus Himself drew near, grieving this loss too. Even as the words, “why God?” were wept into heartache, the establishment of presence and love and grief intertwined to reveal the consequence of freewill, the depth of sorrow, the immeasurable reach of His love.

A love that stepped into the very pit of our pain, removed His shoes, and held out His hands.

A love that experienced the depths of suffering too.

A love that bent low, knelt close, and never departed.

A love we could feel.

A love that would outlast the night.

A hope that would bring us together again, where there would be no more death.

Only life everlasting.

I don’t know how, but I have to believe that God showed up that night. That even in the darkest despair, He became personal, touched hands, and brought blessing into the brokenness. I know that pain does not eclipse His presence; rather, through it, His love is revealed. That one day, all sorrow will end, and His faithful presence will be fully known.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. - Psalm 34:18

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988 (U.S.) or visit

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/