The God Who Weeps: Grief, Closure and the Eternal Embrace

Part 2: False Feelings of Forever

Last week, I shared my own struggles with grief—how Jesus met me, strengthened me, and used me through it. This week, I want to take a closer look at what grief really is and what it stirs in us. In time, we’ll see that grief can actually be good—but only if we’re willing to shift our perspective.

Grief is sorrow, depression, or a complex response to loss—something that can never be restored to what it once was. Linkin Park’s song “Forgotten” paints a vivid image of this:

“A little piece of paper with a picture drawn.
It floats on down the street until the wind is gone.
The memory now is like the picture was then.
When the paper’s crumpled up, it can’t be perfect again.”

That’s grief. You can tape it up, try your hardest to flatten the paper—but it will never be the same again.

Grief is often treated as a “God-forsaken topic,” but that’s not because God has abandoned it—it’s because we often avoid or misunderstand it. Yet Scripture shows us that grief has a place before God.

Let’s be honest—no one likes death or life-altering injury. Many scenarios can bring us to a place of grief. Maybe it’s the slow, expected loss of a loved one without the chance to properly say goodbye. I know someone who lost his father during the COVID-19 pandemic. The only goodbyes that day were through a pane of glass.

Or maybe you’re surprised by the birth of a child with a disability—having had no indication beforehand. In that moment, the life you thought would be is suddenly gone. There’s no first catch with Dad, no typical milestones like walking, talking, or eating. Just doctor visits and surgeries that fill your days, weeks, months, and years. Maybe you lost your job—the only income your family had. Now, your spouse has to go back to work. They can no longer stay home to raise your kids. Otherwise, you risk losing the house and the life you’d built.

Grief isn’t a quick, one-and-done event. It echoes in the cave of your heart, lingering like it might last forever.

Grief and loss are like chronic illnesses with no real cure. The treatments we’re offered only numb the pain or make us feel worse before better. Still, we’ll do anything to live just one more day. In trying to escape loss, we deceive our hearts with feelings of forever. But in a finite world, nothing lasts. Our bodies break down. Our loved ones pass on. Even the sturdiest structures eventually fall.

We say things like, “Lord, if I could just have one more day with…” (you fill in the blank). We try to outrun death with exercise, self-help books, and diet trends. We give our kids every advantage. Some parents even hold their kids back a year to boost their odds in sports. We work tirelessly for the nice house with the white picket fence—the so-called American Dream.

But even in our best efforts, deep down, we know it’s all in vain. King Solomon knew this well. He had wealth, women, wisdom, and knowledge, but concluded:

“All is vanity. What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun? A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever.”
— Ecclesiastes 1:2–4

Isn’t that true? Our jobs feel monotonous. We collect accolades. Then one day, we pause and ask, What happened to my thirties? What have I really accomplished? Even our relationships with loved ones eventually pass. If we can’t live forever, we’re left to ask—is it worth it?

The Illusion of Closure

Recently, I took a grief counseling class for my master’s in education. The experience was enlightening and healing. As part of the course, my group was assigned a presentation on “Loss Without Closure.” Our goal was to answer a difficult question: How can someone grieve properly without closure?

One example we examined was the disappearance of a young girl from the small town of Palmyra—vanished over a decade ago. Her parents still hold out hope. Even if she’s not found alive, they hope to recover her body—just to have something to hold on to. Something that might bring closure.

At first, our research focused on how to help people find closure from such losses. We thought closure was the key to healing. But soon, we realized something deeper: true closure doesn’t really come for those who grieve.

The reason we crave closure is because of the way we’ve been conditioned. In movies, the good guy wins. In news reports, grieving parents say, “We just want to find the body. We just want justice.” The assumption is: once they have that, the grief will end. But that’s a false promise.

We’ve been offered relationships built on feelings of forever. And when that “forever” ends, we search for closure as a replacement. I’ve done the same—believing closure would help me grieve. But it hasn’t.

I saw my MomMom two weeks before she passed, and my Gran about a week before her passing. Neither had their mental or physical faculties.

MomMom slept through our visit. All the while, my two young children—just four and two years old—banged their toy trucks together, loud enough for the entire facility to hear.

Gran didn’t recognize me. She seemed to be in constant pain.

Would being there in their final moments have changed anything? I don’t think so.

My dad has always told me, “You’re never really ready—for parenting, for marriage, for a house.” And truly, we’re never ready for loss either. Or for the illusion of closure. Still, I keep chasing it. Why?

C.S. Lewis offers some insight. Reflecting on the death of his dear friend Charles Williams, Lewis wrote:

“In each of my friends there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself, I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets.”
— C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

In other words, we only see the full brilliance of a person through our shared connections and community. When one light goes out, a part of that person disappears forever—and we feel the weight of it.

So what is Lewis implying? That it’s our relationships with family and friends that help shape who we are. And that’s why we long for closure—because the uniqueness of those relationships is now gone.

Gran brought out things in me that no one else ever did. A simple example: I’ve only ever watched Jerry Lewis movies with her—or by myself, in memory of her.

But I’m sure you have your own examples. There are things you only do because of a friend or spouse. Or maybe a parent, child, or sibling. And many things we do are subconscious—shaped by those we’re closest to.

As a teacher, I see it every day. Students shift personalities depending on which friend group they’re around. It’s subtle, but it’s real. And that’s what makes our connections so powerful—so personal.

So, should we keep looking for something, or someone, that’s no longer there?

To say there’s ever full closure when something so massive leaves our lives—that would be false.

And if the pain never goes away… do I really want it to?

The things that were unique between me and my grandmothers helped shape who I am. Recognizing that loss—though painful—keeps those memories alive. In a way, it keeps part of them with me.

I don’t want to replace them. Nothing could.

I’ve come to accept that, in my finite human state, closure isn’t something I can create for myself. I still long for it—but I now know I need a kind of closure that’s not of my own doing.

I want to live forever—but not in this broken, fragile world. As C.S. Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity:

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”
— C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

There is closure—it’s just not what we expected. Actually, it’s better.

The unavoidable truth is this: we all grieve, and we all seek closure. Why? Because we were made in the image of God. And because of that, we can know that closure is not only possible—it’s promised.

If you’re sad, that’s okay. One day, you won’t be—because this grief will end.

In Part 3 of The God Who Weeps series, we’ll explore how God addresses grief and closure through His Son, Jesus Christ.