Chasing the Snake

Learning to Let Go of the Why and Lean Into the Who

When someone we deeply love is suddenly gone, the ache of their absence is often matched only by the flood of questions that follow. We want answers. We want logic. We want to rewind time or rewrite the ending.

In those early days of grief—and sometimes even long after—we find ourselves searching for something that will make it all make sense. But what if that search is hurting us more than healing us?

I came across a powerful analogy recently, and it pierced something deep in me…

“Imagine being bitten by a snake and instead of trying to help yourself heal and recover from the poison, you are trying to catch the snake to find out the reason it bit you—and prove to it that you didn’t deserve that.”

That image has stayed with me, because I’ve done it. Maybe you have, too. Something happens; something devastating. Someone you love more than life itself is taken, and you’re left behind, stunned, broken, aching. And instead of tending to your own wounded soul, you start chasing the snake. You want to understand why. Why him? Why me? Why now?

We say things like, “When I get to Heaven, I’m going to ask God why He let this happen.” I’ve said it. I’ve thought it. But in those moments, I can almost hear my Dad’s voice gently reminding me how silly that sounds. We’re not going to stand in the splendor of Heaven with a list of questions. We’re not going to be flipping through our journals looking for that one unanswered mystery to bring before the throne. In the presence of God — where there is no sorrow, no pain, no confusion — it will all make sense. Or more likely, it just won’t matter anymore.

But chasing the snake doesn’t stop there. There’s also this deep ache to prove that we didn’t deserve the pain. We try to make sure the world knows how unfair it all was. We explain our loss, list our faith, lay out all the reasons why this shouldn’t have happened to us. We want someone to validate that it was unjust, that we were blindsided, that we were faithful people with a beautiful life—and it was stolen.

And truthfully, before that loss, life was beautiful. Then came that October day in 2020. And everything changed. That was the moment the road split open.
That was the snakebite. And for a while, I chased the snake.

But here’s what I’ve learned: Most people can’t understand a stage of life until they’ve walked it. They may care. They may try. But if they haven’t sat with grief like a second skin, they won’t fully understand it. And it’s not their fault. It’s just reality. So proving your pain to others is fruitless.

But you know the truth.  God knows the truth.  He knows how deeply you loved. He knows the prayers you prayed, the tears you cried, the faith you held onto even when the world gave you every reason to let go.

And if God chose to heal your loved one on the other side of Heaven, it doesn’t mean your faith was any less than the one who was healed on this side. We don’t earn miracles by the strength of our belief. Sometimes, healing means eternal wholeness instead of earthly restoration.

I’m reminded of the song “Three Wooden Crosses” by Randy Travis.  “Why there’s not four, Heaven only knows…. It’s not what you take when you leave this world behind you, It’s what you leave behind you when you go.” My husband left behind a legacy of love, wisdom, and unwavering faith.  He didn’t lose a battle—he just arrived at healing before I did.

Final Thoughts: I’m Not Chasing Anymore 

I’m learning not to chase the snake anymore. Instead, I’m tending to the wound.  Letting time, grace, and the steady hand of God do the healing. I’m choosing to trust the One who knows the answers, even when I don’t.

And I’m learning that peace doesn’t come from understanding the “why”—it comes from remembering the Who. So no, I don’t need to catch the snake.  I just need to keep walking forward, held by the same God who walks every step with me. And when I finally stand in His presence, I won’t need to ask a thing.