Grief is a Marathon

Grief Is a Marathon, 

Not a Race

      I recently had someone come up to me and say “Matt, I’m surprised you’re still grieving.”  There aren't many times in my life when I become speechless, but that was one of those times.  My immediate reaction was angry, frustration, and to be quite honest, a desire to yell and scream back.  Instead, I calmly and quietly stepped away, leaving the conversation entirely.  This is a sentence many grieving people hear sooner or later. Sometimes it’s spoken gently, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes with impatience—but almost always with a misunderstanding beneath it. The assumption is the same: grief should be finished by now.  But grief doesn’t work that way, and those that think that grief does work that way haven't truly experienced grief.  Grief isn't a mountain that you climb or an ocean that you swim, it is a life that you are forced to live.

      Scripture quietly affirms this reality. “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Nearness implies presence, not a deadline. God does not arrive with a stopwatch, instead in the image He uses surgical tools or knitting tools.  A good doctor doesn't mind the clock nor does a person who is doing a quality job on a project. God draws close and stays. 

      There is a myth of a grief timeline.  We live in a culture that loves timelines. Recovery plans. Milestones. Due dates. Even healing is often treated like a project with a beginning, middle, and neat conclusion.  Grief refuses to cooperate with that framework.  We can try to rush grieving, but that only complicates the matter all together.  The Bible never assigns a timetable to sorrow. Instead, it gives permission for it. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” (Matthew 5:4). Mourning is not rushed; comfort is promised in God’s time, not ours.  There is no universal schedule for loss. No expiration date stamped on sorrow.  Grief is not cookie cutter or predictable. No moment where the heart simply checks a box and moves on. Grief doesn’t run on a calendar—it lives in the body, the memory, the nervous system, the soul.  Read that again and meditate on it before reading anything else.

      Some days grief whispers. Other days it roars like a lion, shaking body and soul. And sometimes, years later, it shows up unexpectedly, not because you’re weak or stuck, but because love doesn’t disappear just because time has passed.  To be fair with you it's been over thirteen months since Tiffanie has passed away.  God has been faithful and I've fallen in love again.  I have pressed forward, BUT I love Tiff more now than I did over a year ago.

      We need to remember that grief works more like a marathon instead of a sprint.  Grief is often treated like a race—something to push through, conquer, and finish as quickly as possible. We applaud speed. We reward “strength.” We admire those who seem to get back to normal fast.  But grief is not a sprint.  Even Jesus did not hurry grief. At the tomb of His friend, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). He declared that He was the resurrection and the life, and yet He still paused to enter fully into sorrow. Tears were not a lack of faith; they were an expression of love.  It’s a marathon and for those of us grieving, we need to embrace that reality.  This isn't a quick thing, it isnt' something that we magically get over, it's not a fix and forget it infomercial.  This is our cross to bear all our days.

      Scripture often uses endurance language when speaking about the life of faith. “Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1). Endurance assumes length, difficulty, and the need to keep going even when the journey is hard. Grief fits this imagery far more than a quick sprint.

      I am not a runner.  I personally wonder how someone could run a marathon and think it's fun, but one thing that I have observed from friends of mine who do run is that marathons require pacing. They demand endurance.  A runner could come out of the gate fastest but end up in last place because they didn't prepare for the pace set in front of them.  Marathons allow for water breaks, sore muscles, second winds, and moments when you wonder if you can keep going at all. No one expects a marathon runner to maintain the same speed from start to finish—and no one should expect that of a grieving heart either.  Some miles are brutal. Some are quiet. Some feel manageable. Others feel impossible. And every runner’s journey looks different.  So, for you reading this, pace your grief.  Some months will feel like they never end, others will go by so quickly that you will be surprised to see what month it is.  For those of you that are not grieving, show grace, because you do not see the invisible weight that the person carries.

      When someone says, “I’m surprised you’re still grieving,” what they often mean is: your grief is making me uncomfortable.  To be honest, grief does make people uncomfortable.  They don't know what to do with our grief.  Grief doesn't often make you the most popular person at the party.  Scripture acknowledges this discomfort. “Weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15) sounds simple, but it requires staying present longer than we might prefer. It calls us to companionship, not commentary.  That is why Son's of the Shepherd exists.  It exists to provide hope and healign to a community of people that are hurting, to those that are struggling to find understanding, to those that feel ostracized by others simply by the fact that we grieve.  It provides a safe, secure place where we can weep with each other and press forward toward rejoicing with one another.

      Ongoing grief confronts us with things we’d rather avoid—our own losses, our lack of control, the truth that love and pain are deeply intertwined. It reminds us that not everything can be fixed or wrapped up neatly.  So we rush the grieving, and grief cannot be rushed or wrapped up tightly with a bow.  We offer timelines instead of presence. Advice instead of listening. Encouragement to “move on” instead of permission to keep carrying what still hurts.  But grief doesn’t need to be fixed. It needs to be witnessed.  Don't just read that, live that.

      Now, over time, grief may change shape, size, and weight, but it will still exist.  Paul names this tension when he writes, “We are sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” (2 Corinthians 6:10). Scripture makes room for joy and grief to coexist, even over a long stretch of life. It may soften. It may make room for joy again. But it rarely disappears entirely. And that’s not a flaw—it’s a testimony, your testimony.  For me personally my grief has morphed tremendously.  Some days it's very manageable, other days it depresses me to the point I don't want to get out of bed.  Some days it's light, other days it's heavy.  But, no matter the size or weight of my grief, I still press forward toward joy and Jesus.

      So, maybe the better question to ask someone who is grieving isn't, “Are you over this yet?” maybe the better questions are how are you carrying this these days, or what does this loss still stir in you, or better yet, how can I walk with you, even now?  Because grief isn’t a phase you outgrow.  It's not a pair of shoes that you grow out of.  Ecclesiastes reminds us there is “a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4). Scripture never says the time to mourn must be short—only that it is part of being human.  It’s a journey you learn to live alongside.  You allow grief to be your teacher, not your master.  And if you’re still grieving, you’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re not doing it wrong.  You’re simply still running the marathon—with courage, with love, and with a heart that remembers.