I did not choose grief. It chose me.
It wraps itself around the heart like a fog, shielding us from the full weight of sorrow we are not yet ready to bear. In those early moments, emotions feel suspended, reality blurred, and time strangely distorted.
We may move through routines mechanically, speak in hushed tones, or feel disconnected from our surroundings. This numbness is not denial—it is survival. It allows the spirit to breathe while the heart begins to process the unthinkable. Even in Scripture, we see this grace at work: when Job received news of his children’s death, he tore his robe and fell to the ground in worship—not because he felt nothing, but because he was held in the tension between shock and surrender. Protective numbness is not the absence of indwelling faith—it is the quiet space where indwelling faith begins to awaken.
Like a thief in the night, it crept into my soul—uninvited, unrelenting, and unfamiliar. It shattered my rhythms, silenced my laughter, and left me staring into midnight, and I could not escape.
I searched for answers in the dark but found only isolation. I cried out to God, and for a time, it felt as though heaven had closed its doors.
But grief, I have learned, is not the absence of God—it is the place where He draws near.
In the midnight of my soul, I discovered the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3). He did not offer me platitudes. He offered me His presence. He did not erase my pain. He entered it. And in that sacred exchange, I began to see what I could not see before: that midnight is not the end of the story.
There is joy in the morning!
This book is not a roadmap out of sorrow. It is a testimony of walking through it—with the One who conquered death, who weeps with those who mourn, and who promises joy in the morning (Psalm 30:5). It is for those who feel stuck in the shadows, unsure if the sun will ever rise again. It is for the brokenhearted, the weary, the questioning, and the waiting.
I have known sorrow before. I’ve walked through valleys, prayed through storms, and stood beside others as they buried their loved ones. But nothing prepared me for the ache of losing one of my best friends. It was not just the absence of a person—it was the tearing of a soul-thread, woven through years of laughter, prayer, shared burdens, and sacred trust. When he left this earth, something in me collapsed. The world didn’t just feel quieter—it felt hollow.
Grief came swiftly, but not loudly. It was not a scream—it was a silence that thundered.
I found myself reaching for the phone to text him, only to remember. I scrolled through old messages, reread emails, and lingered over photos that now felt like relics of a life interrupted. The sorrow was not just emotional—it was spiritual. It provoked a lament I had never known, a groaning too deep for words (Romans 8:26). I wept not only for what was lost, but for what would never be again on this side of eternity.
This friend was more than a companion—he was a covenant brother. We carried each other’s burdens, spoke truth in love, and dreamed of revival together. His absence left a void that no one else could fill. And yet, amid that void, I sensed the whisper of the Comforter. Not to erase the pain, but to sanctify it. To remind me that love this deep is never wasted, and that grief this profound is a testimony to the gift we were given.
I do not pretend to understand the timing. I do not rush to explain the mystery. But I do know this: my sorrow has become sacred ground. It has driven me to the feet of Yeshua in ways I never imagined. It has stripped away pretense and awakened a longing for eternity that no earthly joy could satisfy. And in the midnight of this loss, I began to see glimmers of morning—not because the pain is gone, but because His presence remains.
Yeshua called me to write this—not as a theologian, not as a teacher, but as a grieving friend.
In the quiet aftermath of loss, when words failed and tears spoke louder than sermons, I heard His gentle prompting: “There are others.” Others who, like me, were blindsided by the depth of sorrow, surprised by the flood of emotions that surged without warning. This grief was not tidy. It did not follow the script. And yet, in the chaos of mourning, I sensed His heart—for those who feel overwhelmed, confused, even ashamed by the intensity of their pain. He reminded me that grief is not weakness—it is evidence of love. And love, when surrendered to Him, becomes a pathway to healing.
So, I write, not to explain grief away, but to walk with those who are still in the storm, and to testify that Yeshua meets us there.
If you are about to order this book, you are not alone. The Comforter has come. And He is leading you—step by step, tear by tear—toward the other side of midnight.
