WHEN GRIEF MEETS GOOD FRIDAY
There is a stillness to Good Friday that feels familiar when you’re walking through grief. It’s a day marked by sorrow, by silence, by the weight of something ending. And when your own life has been split into “before” and “after” by loss, Good Friday doesn’t just feel symbolic; it feels achingly personal.
For those of us who have lost someone we love, Good Friday isn’t only about remembering the crucifixion of Jesus. It becomes a mirror, reflecting our own wounds and longing. It speaks to the suffering we know too well: the heartbreak, the confusion, the questions that echo without clear answers.
On this day, the world went dark at noon. The sky wept. And so do we.
Grief and the Silence of Saturday
What follows Good Friday is Holy Saturday — a day of waiting, of absence, of not knowing what comes next. And this space between death and resurrection? It’s the space many grieving hearts dwell in. The quiet in-between where hope hasn’t yet risen, but loss is loud and undeniable.
There’s comfort in knowing that even Jesus’ followers felt this. They watched Him die, not yet understanding the miracle that was coming. They scattered, stunned and broken. That waiting space, that deep ache? We aren’t alone in it.
God in the Grief
But Good Friday also tells a deeper story — that God is not distant from our suffering. He stepped into it. He felt it all: betrayal, abandonment, pain, and death. If grief isolates us from others, Good Friday assures us we are not isolated from Him. He understands.
That doesn’t always make the sorrow disappear, but it wraps it in a sacredness. It reminds us that grief is not a detour from faith; it’s part of the path.
Holding Both: Sorrow and Promise
Good Friday doesn’t rush us into Easter. It invites us to feel, to remember, to mourn. And in our grief, that is the permission we need. We don’t have to “fix it” or “move on” today. We’re allowed to sit in the shadow of the cross, letting our tears fall at the feet of a Savior who also wept.
But even as we grieve, we do not grieve without hope. The story doesn’t end on Friday. And neither does ours.
For now, it’s enough to just be here. In the stillness. In the sorrow. In the company of the One who knows grief better than anyone.
