A Devotional on Grief: It Didn't Start With YouSample

IT DIDN'T START WITH YOU

There is a well-known story of a young woman cooking her first Thanksgiving dinner for her family under the watchful eye of her mother. As she's preparing the ham, she cuts off both ends before placing it in the roasting pan. Mid-slice, she pauses and turns to her mother: "Why do we cut the ends off the ham?"

The question catches her mother off guard. She's always cut the ends off, learned it from her mother but now that someone's actually asking, she realizes she doesn't know why. Curious herself, she calls her own mother.

"Mom, why do we cut the ends off the ham before we cook it?"

There's a pause, then laughter on the other end of the line. "Honey, I only did that because my roasting pan was too small. I had to cut the ends off to make it fit."

Three generations of women. Three perfectly good roasting pans of various sizes. And years of cutting away perfectly good ham to fit a constraint that no longer existed.

None of us is having the same lived experience. Every person's journey is so unique that it can feel difficult to find common ground. But here's one thing most of us share: we've inherited ways of doing things, ways of thinking, ways of coping, ways of handling our emotions that we never questioned because they were simply passed down.

Some of what we inherit is beautiful: recipes that taste like home, traditions that bind us to our people, wisdom that has stood the test of time. But we also inherit constraints. Unspoken rules about what's acceptable to feel. Silent contracts about which emotions are allowed at the table and which ones must be trimmed away before they can be served.

Perhaps you learned early that crying was a sign of weakness. That anger wasn't allowed, especially for "good Christian" girls or boys. That disappointment meant ingratitude. That grief was something to "get over" quickly, quietly, privately as if sorrow itself were the problem and not a deeply human response to loss.

Maybe you've spent years cutting away parts of your emotional experience simply because that's what was modeled for you. Not because those feelings were wrong. Not because they didn't fit you. But because they didn't fit someone else's pan.

Here's what I've learned, and what I hope becomes clear over these next days together: grief is not just about death. Yes, we grieve when someone dies. That's the most recognized form of loss, the one our culture has language for. But we also grieve job losses and job promotions. We grieve relationships that end and relationships that change. We grieve dreams deferred, health declined, innocence lost. We grieve transitions, even good ones because every new beginning requires us to say goodbye to what was.

We grieve what happened. We grieve what didn't happen. We grieve what should have been. We even grieve good things, because growth always costs us something.

And here's the truth that might surprise you: Jesus understands. Not theoretically, but intimately. Isaiah 53:3 tells us He was "a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief." The original Hebrew word "yada" means to know by experience, to be intimately familiar with. Jesus didn't just observe human suffering from a distance. He lived it. He felt it. He carried it in His body and spirit.

Which means when we grieve, we're not moving away from God, we're moving toward the very heart of Christ's human experience.

Over the next days, we're going to explore what it means to grieve faithfully. Not to grieve less, but to grieve honestly. To stop apologizing for our humanity. To give ourselves permission to feel the full range of what it means to be human, a range that includes sorrow, disappointment, anger, confusion, and yes, even grief in the midst of blessing.

We're going to discover that faith and grief aren't enemies. That gratitude and sorrow can sit at the same table. That tears don't indicate a lack of trust in God. They indicate we're alive, we're paying attention, and we're brave enough to feel.

You don't have to cut away parts of yourself to fit anymore. Your grief has a place here. Your questions have a place here. Your honest, complicated, messy humanity has a place here.

Because it didn't start with you. This pressure to edit your emotions, to minimize your pain, to apologize for taking up space. But it can end with you. You can be the one who says: "I'm choosing a bigger pan. One that has room for all of me."

Reflection: What emotional "rules" did you inherit? Are there feelings you've been cutting away to fit expectations that were never meant for you? What would it look like to give yourself permission to feel fully?

Prayer: Jesus, You know what it is to grieve. You understand the weight of human sorrow because You carried it Yourself. As I begin this journey, help me trust that my grief is not a burden to You. Teach me to bring my whole self, including the parts I've learned to hide into Your presence. Amen.