Lament is faith refusing to pretend.

The last few weeks have been tough.

Nothing in particular happened. There was no single event I can point to and say, “That is where this started.” And maybe that is part of what makes it so difficult. I do not understand this seemingly unprovoked sadness, this heaviness, this pain that seems to arrive without knocking.

Maybe it was the birthdays of our other children. Birthdays are beautiful. They should be celebrated. I am grateful for my children and for the privilege of watching them grow. But grief has a strange way of sitting down at the table during celebrations. You can be genuinely thankful for the children who are with you and, at exactly the same time, ache for the child who is not.

Maybe it was that.

Or maybe it has been the news of too many young people dying in our community. Too many parents burying children. Too many families having their worlds torn apart. Too many funerals…

I don’t know. Nevertheless, the pain and the questions are real.

As is my custom, I want to relate what I am feeling to Scripture. Usually, somewhere in the wrestling, I find a text. A verse. A story. Something that helps me name where I am and reminds me where God is.

Today I don’t know how to do that. I probably should. I am a pastor, after all.

I should be able to find the right passage. I should know what to say about suffering, death, hope and resurrection.

But today I don’t.

I am writing these words while sitting in a memorial service for a young boy who was brutally murdered. I am looking at grieving people trying to make sense of something that makes no sense at all.

Perhaps that is the problem.We are always trying to make sense of the senseless.

Sometimes Christians are too quick to explain pain. We reach for phrases about God’s plan, God’s timing and God’s purposes because silence makes us uncomfortable.

But some things should not be explained.

A child being murdered is not something I want to make spiritually reasonable. A parent burying a child is not something I want to tidy up with theology.

There are moments when theology must stop trying to explain God and simply help us cry before God.

Perhaps that is where Scripture meets me today.

Not with an answer. With a cry. “How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever?” Psalm 13:1

Those words do not solve anything, But they give me permission. Permission to ask. Permission to hurt. Permission to be confused. Permission to sit in church and not know what theological conclusion to draw from what I am witnessing.

The Psalms remind me that lament is not the opposite of faith. Lament is faith refusing to pretend. It is saying, “God, I still believe You are there, which is precisely why I am bringing this pain to You.”

Maybe today that is enough. I do not need to understand everything. I do not need to turn every wound into a lesson. I do not need to manufacture hope before I am ready.

I can simply sit here. Grieving for a family. Grieving for a community. Grieving again for my own child.

Grieving perhaps for all the things we carry quietly until something suddenly opens the door and they come rushing back.

Somewhere in all of this I still believe God is present. Not standing above the pain offering explanations… But, as the Gospel continually reveals… that Jesus entered our pain. Jesus weeps. Jesus suffers. Jesus cries out. Jesus bears wounds, even after resurrection.

Maybe Christian hope does not mean that we stop hurting. Maybe it means that our hurt is held by a God who knows what wounds feel like.

I still have questions. Honestly, today I have more questions than answers.

And perhaps this blog entry does not need a clever conclusion. Perhaps today faith simply sounds like this:

God, I don’t understand. This hurts. I am tired of death. The I am tired of watching people bury their children.

I miss my own child and I don’t know what to do with all of this… But I am still talking to You.

Maybe, for today, that is faith enough.

 

 

Wholeness Is Brokenness Owned: Lessons I Learned from Funerals

“Wholeness is brokenness owned and thereby healed.(Henri Nouwen)

Over the past few weeks, we have buried too many people.
 
I have sat with families in their living rooms, stood with them at gravesides, listened to stories that carry both love and pain. I have also sat in silence when there were no words left to offer.
 
Somewhere in all of that, something unsettled me.  Even in grief, we are still trying to appear whole.

 
There were moments, sitting with grieving families, where I felt my own ache rising. Moments where I wanted to speak about my own longing, my own tiredness, my own questions. Instead, I held it together. I chose to appear strong. Not even consciously. It is simply what we do.
 
We learn how to carry ourselves in ways that reassure others. We manage how much we show. We keep certain things tucked away. Sometimes we tell ourselves it is for the sake of others. Sometimes it is. But often, it is because we do not know what to do with our own wounds.
 
I find myself returning again to Henri Nouwen’s idea of the wounded healer. Not as a concept, but as a lived reality.
 
Wholeness is not having everything together. It is facing what is broken and refusing to hide it from God.
 
I keep coming back to that moment in John 20. Jesus stands before Thomas and does not hide His wounds. He does not pretend the cross never happened. He shows the scars. And strangely, that is what convinces Thomas. Not a polished explanation. Not a display of power. The wounds.
 
That stays with me.
 
People do not trust strength that feels distant. They trust what is real. They trust someone who has suffered and is still standing. Not because they are strong, but because grace has held them.
 
At the same time, I am learning that honesty is not the same as exposure. Let me try and explain… This is not about spilling everything everywhere. It is about bringing our wounds into the right spaces. Before God first. Then within safe and accountable community. Always with the intention of healing, not just release.
 
The truth is, many of us want healing without honesty. We want God to fix what we are not willing to name. We want to move forward without going through.
 
It does not work like that. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” Not those who have it all together. Those who know they do not.
 
Paul’s words about power being made perfect in weakness are not sentimental. They are confronting. Weakness is not something to be avoided at all costs. It is often the very place where God meets us most clearly.
 
David Bosch reminds us that mission is not about strong people helping weak people. It is about all of us, in our shared brokenness, being drawn into what God is restoring. The Church is not a gathering of polished people. It is a community of honest people learning to live in grace.
 
In our African context, this truth deepens. Mercy Amba Oduyoye speaks about healing as communal. Not hidden, not individualised, but carried together. It is seen in how we speak, how we forgive, how we bear one another’s burdens.
 
We  need that, because  what we refuse to face does not disappear. It reappears. In frustration. In control. In gossip. In distance between people who should be walking together.
 
So the question is not whether we are broken. The reality is that we are broken. The question is whether we are willing to bring that brokenness into the light. Before God and with people we trust. So that healing can begin.
 
Jesus’ invitation remains: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
 
Not come as you appear. Come as you are. Because the version of you that keeps everything together does not need rest. It needs to be maintained and that is exhausting.
 
The real you, the one beneath the strength, beneath the control, beneath the silence, that is the one Christ calls and until we bring that self into the light, we will keep circling the same wounds, calling it strength, calling it faith, calling it moving on. It is not, it is avoidance.
 
Christ is still standing, wounds visible, inviting us to come to Him in all honesty
 

When Words Are Not Enough: Finding Integrity and Hope in Pastoral Care

 

God is near!

God is merciful!

God is enough!

These three truths have become an anchor for me. As a pastor, I often struggle to find the right balance between comfort and integrity, between offering hope and calling people to responsibility. There are moments, especially in counselling or at a funeral, when words feel both necessary and inadequate.

Let me share how I’m learning to live with that tension.

Henri Nouwen once said that caregivers are called to be “living reminders of God’s presence,” not spokespersons for the afterlife. That reminder has shaped the way I see my role. We provide no comfort by guessing someone’s eternal destiny; I believe it comes from pointing the living toward the God who remains faithful and present, even in death (dark and lonely moments).

The Pastor’s calling is not to declare where the deceased is, but to hold up the hope that God’s mercy is bigger than our understanding. I am convinced that when we speak from that place, we open doors of grace rather than condemnation.

Our task is not to secure heaven for some and others not. Our tasks is to open the door to Christ, the one who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. When we do that, we make space for both grief and grace, for mystery and mercy to live side by side. So that in the paradoxes of life we find The God of Peace.

The same is true in pastoral counselling. We must resist the urge to hand out eternal verdicts on those who struggle, fail, or doubt. Our role is not to assign destinations but to walk alongside people. David Bosch reminds us that mission, and therefore ministry, is about joining the movement of God’s love towards people. It is not a performance of divine authority but a sharing in divine compassion.

And this, I believe, is where the heart of pastoral care truly lies… in the quiet, faithful work of presence. We are called to stand beside people in their questions, to remind them that God is still at work even when the answers are unclear. When we learn to trust that truth, something shifts inside us too.

If we can learn to trust God with the dead, then surely we can trust God with the living. That is where true comfort begins. We do not bring peace by explaining the mysteries of eternity, but by standing faithfully within them, pointing people again and again to the God who is near, merciful, and enough.

21 Years

 

 Twenty-one years, my love.

 That’s a lot of days

a lot of mornings waking up

and still choosing each other.

 

We’ve had good days,

days full of laughter and light,

days when love felt easy.

And we’ve had hard days,

when the weight was heavy,

and words weren’t enough.

 

We’ve been blessed with joy

three beautiful children,

living reminders

that love grows and multiplies.

 

And we’ve walked through loss.

The kind that marks you forever.

Saying goodbye to  our little boy

was a grief too deep for words.

Fifteen months of love

and then a lifetime of missing.

Yet even in that valley,

Grace carried us.

 

Through laughter and tears,

through dreams and heartbreak,

God has held us.

His faithfulness has been our anchor,

His grace, the glue

that’s kept us here,

still standing,

still us.

 

So today, as we celebrate twenty-one years,

I don’t just see love

I see faithfulness.

I see survival.

I see grace written

all over our story.

 

And I see you.

Still beside me.

Still the one I choose.

Still the love of my life.

The Legacy We Leave: Investing in Each Other

Yesterday, I watched my friend - a young man, in his early twenties, mourn the loss of his father. His dad was a great man, respected in his community, devoted to his family, and admired by those who knew him. But what struck me most was not his list of accomplishments or the stories people shared about him. What struck me was the strength I saw in my friend as he grieved.

Though his heart was heavy, he stood as a pillar of comfort and support for the rest of his family. He was able to carry them, even while carrying his own sorrow. And as I reflected on it, I realized: he was only able to do this because of the investment his parents had made in him.

We live in a world that often measures success by what we accumulate… money, possessions, achievements, recognition. But the truth is, none of these things last. What truly endures is the way we treat people. I heard it said that people hardly remember what you did for them but they almost never forget how you made them feel.

When Jesus taught His disciples, He reminded them:

“Store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.” (Matthew 6:20)

Treasures in heaven are not bank accounts or trophies… They are the lives we touch, the people we nurture, and the love we give away. My friend’s father had invested deeply in his children and in those of us who cared enough to listen. He taught them (us) faith, resilience, and compassion. He modelled what it means to lead a family with grace. And now, even in death, that investment continues to yield fruit.

Here's my thoughts…

Legacy is not about leaving behind monuments; it’s about leaving behind people who embody your values.

The Apostle Paul put it this way when he wrote to Timothy: “And the things you have heard me say in the presence of many witnesses entrust to reliable people who will also be qualified to teach others.” (2 Timothy 2:2)

Paul understood that true legacy multiplies. It’s not only what you teach, it’s how what you teach lives on in others. My friend’s father entrusted values and faith to his son, and now, in a time of crisis, those seeds are blossoming.

Watching my friend, I realized that grief and legacy walk hand in hand. Death is painful, but a strong legacy softens the blow. We cry, but we also remember. We mourn, but we also stand a little taller because of the shoulders we are standing on.

This experience left me asking myself: What am I investing in the people around me?

Am I so caught up in my own world, my to-do lists and my goals that I forget to spend time with those I love? Am I more focused on what I leave to people (money, possessions) than on what I leave in people (values, faith, love)?

We are called to be a people that empowers:

Parents invest in their children not only by providing but by being present.

Friends invest in each other by showing up, listening, and encouraging.

Churches invest in communities by teaching, equipping, and serving.

Each moment of kindness, each word of encouragement, each lesson shared is a deposit into someone’s life. These investments compound. They outlive us. They shape generations.

My friend reminded me that inheritance is more than wealth. In fact, the greatest inheritance is not financial at all. Proverbs 13:22 says, “A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children.”

That inheritance is wisdom, courage, faith, and compassion. The kind of riches that cannot be stolen or devalued.

When my friend stood strong in the middle of his grief, it was clear he had inherited far more than property or possessions. He had inherited a spiritual and emotional wealth that now allows him to carry others. That is the kind of inheritance we should all strive to leave.

As I watched my friend honor his father through his own strength, I was reminded that life is about more than what we get, it’s about what we give.

One day, people will gather to remember us. They will not remember how busy we were, how many things we owned, or how high we climbed. They will remember how we loved, how we invested in others, and how we shaped the lives around us.

My friend’s father is gone, but his life continues to bear fruit through the son who now stands as a pillar for his family. That is the beauty of investment. That is the power of legacy.

This week, be intentional about investing in someone. Listen deeply. Encourage sincerely. Teach generously. Love sacrificially.

Because the legacy you build today will become the strength someone leans on tomorrow.

My Silence Does Not Mean Retreat or Surrender: It's Just Me Healing

This is me… I am a man in grief. Grieving the loss of loved ones, friendships, and even parts of my identity I once held dear. The noise of grief is overwhelming—it’s loud, relentless, and at times, it feels like it’s killing me. It’s the kind of noise that drowns out clarity, peace, and even hope. So I’ve chosen silence—not as a retreat or surrender—but as a way to heal. 

For me, silence is not about giving up; it’s about stepping back to breathe, to reflect, and to confront the chaos within. It’s about creating space to listen—not to the noise of the world or even my own pain—but to something deeper. In this silence, I’m learning to face the thoughts and emotions I’ve been avoiding. 

I’ve realized that silence doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing; it means I’m doing the hard work of healing. It’s a deliberate choice to step away from toxic environments and unhelpful conversations so I can focus inward. It’s a space where I can process my grief, my anger, my confusion—and begin to understand what these feelings are trying to teach me. 

But let me be honest: when I choose silence, people often assume I’m retreating or giving up. They might think I’m weak or that I’ve surrendered to the weight of my circumstances. That couldn’t be further from the truth. My silence is not an act of defeat—it’s an act of survival. It’s me saying, “I need this time to heal.”   

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” As a Christian and Pastor, this verse has always been familiar to me—a call to step out of harm’s way and find refuge in God during life’s storms. But lately, as I sit in my grief and silence, this verse has taken on new meaning for me. 

This isn’t just about escaping external harm; it’s about stepping out of my own way. The greatest noise I face right now isn’t coming from outside—it’s coming from within me. It’s the noise of my grief, my doubts, my fears, and the questions that keep swirling in my mind: “Why did this happen? What do I do now? Who am I without them?” 

Silence has forced me to confront these questions head-on—to sit with them long enough to hear God’s voice amidst the chaos. And what I’m learning is that being still doesn’t mean avoiding pain; it means trusting God enough to face it. It means acknowledging that He is God—and that my struggles, my ego, and even my grief are not worth the worship I sometimes give them.

This isn’t easy for me to admit because vulnerability has never come naturally to me. But in this silence, I’m learning that healing requires honesty—honesty with myself and with God. 

Grief is messy; healing is slow; and silence is uncomfortable. But it’s necessary for me right now. In this season of loss—loss of loved ones, loss of friendships, loss of identity—I need silence more than ever. It’s not about shutting out the world; it’s about creating space for healing.

In this silence, I’m confronting both internal and external demons—the doubts that haunt me at night and the wounds others have inflicted on me during the day. And while it feels like a battle some days, it also feels like surrender—not surrendering to pain but surrendering to God’s presence in the midst of it all.

I don’t have all the answers yet—I may never have them—but what I do have is faith that God is working in this silence even when I can’t see it clearly.

So if you see me quiet right now—if you notice me withdrawing—it’s not because I’ve given up or retreated from life. It’s because I’m doing what I need to do to heal. This silence is sacred for me; it’s where I’m finding strength again.

I don’t know how long this season will last—grief doesn’t follow a timeline—but for now, this is just me healing. And maybe you’re in your own season of silence too—grieving your own losses or wrestling with your own demons.

If you are, let me encourage you: don’t be afraid of the quiet moments. Step back if you need to; sit still long enough to hear God for who He truly is—and let your silence be a space where healing begins.

This is where I am right now—grieving but trusting God for healing in the midst of it all. This is just me healing…and maybe it can be you too.

A Reminder: Grief Will Always Be Part of Me

I’ve been thinking a lot lately — and honestly, writing these blogs often becomes my way of processing what’s swirling around in my head and heart. Today, I want to share something that keeps coming up for me: grief isn’t something that goes away. It becomes part of who I am.

There was a time when I thought grief was a season. Something I’d "get through" or "move past." But now I realize it’s more like a companion — sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but always walking with me. "

I’m not writing this from some place of "all better now." I'm writing as someone who still sometimes tears up in unexpected moments, who still misses what was lost, who still has days of heavy sighs. And maybe you do too.

C.S. Lewis in his book "A Grief Observed" is quoted to say, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning” For me grief isn’t just sadness or pain or even a fear. It’s a shift. It’s learning how to live in a world that’s been rearranged, without asking me if I was okay with the change. It’s messy, unpredictable, and not something that fits neatly into timelines or checklists. As a matter of truth (for me), we are kind of forced to stumble forward. We must realize that this is not a sprint; we stumble along, and shuffle along and sometimes just press pause (rest to find strength), but we keep going. WE MUST KEEP GOING FORWARD.

I’ve come to see that grief shapes the way I see the world now. It’s made me softer in some places and maybe a bit guarded in others. It’s deepened my empathy for others who are hurting. It’s changed the way I love — with a little more urgency, a little more tenderness. But in the spirit of being honest, I must admit that it has also made me ultra-sensitive and irritable. Mostly, I think it has given me reminders, etched into my soul, of the people and moments that mattered so deeply. Those reminders are bittersweet, but they’re sacred. It’s those reminders that make the difficult and hard moments bearable.

I used to think I needed to push grief away or fix it. Now I let it sit with me. Sometimes it whispers; sometimes it doesn’t say anything at all. But it's there, and I don’t try to shoo it away anymore. Instead, I try to learn from it. I speak up (thank God for a patient wife) and voice my discomfort at my table, but I have to acknowledge its presence.

• I’ve learned that my tears aren’t weakness (as frustrating as it might be). They’re proof of love.
• I’ve learned that talking about my losses doesn’t reopen wounds; it helps heal them in layers.
• And I’ve learned that I can laugh, plan, hope, and still carry grief with me. There’s room for both.

Probably the hardest of all is the tension between holding on and moving forward. But I don’t believe in "moving on" anymore. Instead, I believe in walking forward, carrying my grief like a story I tell with love and reverence. Sometimes that means lighting a candle on a hard anniversary. Sometimes it’s writing here, hoping that someone reads this and knows that they are not alone.

Grief reminds me that I’ve loved deeply. It reminds me that life is fragile, fleeting, and beautiful. And while grief will always be part of me, it doesn’t define me. It shapes me — sometimes painfully, but also beautifully.

So, if you’re carrying grief today, I hope this little piece of my heart reminds you: you’re not alone. We’re stumbling forward together. And in the midst of all of it, there is still hope, still beauty, and still moments of light.

We keep going. We stumble forward.