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Grief doesn’t move in straight lines. It circles back, softens, sharpens, disappears, and then suddenly shows up again in the middle of a song or a scent or a photograph you forgot you had. You can be laughing one moment and aching the next. That’s the strange mercy of it—it reminds you that love was real, that it still is real.
You stop trying to “get over” it and start learning to walk with it—to let it change how you see the world. You begin noticing tenderness in places you never did before. You hug longer. You listen deeper. You stop assuming you’ll have more time, and you start treating the present like the miracle that it is.
And even though you may feel cracked wide open, you realize that’s where the light comes in. You see how Jesus meets you there—not to erase the ache but to inhabit it with you. He sits beside you in the quiet moments when the world has moved on, whispering that you are not forgotten, not broken beyond repair.
Because of Him, pain doesn’t get the final word.
Love does. Redemption does. The empty tomb does.
And though grief has changed you, maybe that’s its hidden gift—
You feel life more deeply now. You see heaven more clearly. You carry compassion like oxygen.
The storm left its mark, yes—but it also left you with a heart that beats more like His.
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