When Normal Doesn't Exist Anymore

"The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing."
— Zephaniah 3:17 (NIV)

Three weeks after. Six months after. A year after.

The news crews have moved on to other stories. The volunteers have returned to their own lives. The emergency phase is over, but the ache remains.

This is when collective grief settles into its longest season—when you realize that "getting back to normal" isn't really an option because normal doesn't exist anymore.

The coffee shop isn't coming back. The old oak tree that marked the center of town is gone. The high school where three generations of your family graduated is being demolished. The hiking trail where you proposed to your spouse has been rerouted around the landslide.

And somehow, everyone else expects you to be "over it" by now.

But you can't get over what changed the DNA of your community. You can't just bounce back when the places that held your memories, your traditions, your sense of belonging have been erased or forever altered.

This is the grief that doesn't make headlines but refuses to fade. It shows up when you automatically turn toward where the library used to be. It catches you off guard when you try to give directions using landmarks that no longer exist. It weighs heavily on you during what should be routine errands in a town that looks nothing like the place you've called home for years.

There's a loneliness to this phase of collective grief. People from other places look at you strangely when you mention that you're still sad about a building, a tree, a stretch of road. They don't understand that these weren't just structures or scenery—they were the physical containers of your shared life.

But grief for place is real grief. Grief for community identity is authentic sorrow. Grief for the way things used to be is valid mourning.

You're not being dramatic. You're not being weak. You're not failing to "move forward."

You're being human.

As Ecclesiastes 3:1(NIV) reminds us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” This season may feel long and disorienting, but it is not wrong. And you are not alone.

You're loving what mattered. You're honoring what held meaning. You're allowing your heart to acknowledge that some losses can't be replaced, only integrated.

And God—who created both the mountains and the valleys, who designed both stability and change—understands. He doesn't rush healing. He doesn't minimize your attachment to place and tradition. He doesn't demand that you hurry past your grief for what was. He is not impatient with our tears. In fact, Scripture paints a picture of His love like this: “The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves… he will rejoice over you with singing” (Zephaniah 3:17, NIV). Even when our own songs feel lost, He is still singing over us. He will carry the tune when you cannot hum again just yet.

God walks with you as you learn to love what is, while still missing what was.

Some days will be harder than others. Some rebuilt spaces will feel almost right, while others will always seem different. Some new traditions will grow naturally, while others will feel forced and hollow.

That's all part of the long work of collective healing.

Let it be messy. Let it take time. Let it happen in fits and starts, with good days and setback days mixed together like ingredients in a recipe you're still learning to make.

The areas touched by disaster will find its new shape, its new rhythms, its new ways of being home together. But it will happen slowly, tenderly, one shared breath at a time.

Breath Prayer:

Lord, help us find You in the new landscape, even as we miss the old one.

Scripture-Based Prayer:

Lord, I'm learning that healing as a collective takes so much longer than healing individually.

Thank You for not rushing our process. Thank You for understanding that we're not just grieving structures or locations—we're grieving the rhythms of life we used to know. We're grieving lives lost whom we did not know personally, but we heard their stories, and our hearts carry their loved ones in our own.

Help us to be patient with each other as we figure out how to be healed and love in this new reality. Show us how to honor what was while embracing what will be. Give us the courage to build again, even when we're still missing what we lost. In Jesus' Name, we pray.