Grief, pain, and sorrow do not come with a timeline. Sometimes they crash into our lives long after the event is over. On anniversaries—or in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday—grief doesn’t care. It arrives uninvited, bringing a wave of memories and pain that feels just as fresh as the day it began.
So many people, so much pain.
A friend lost her husband and daughter in the same year. Another lost her father after a long illness. Mothers have lost children through tragic accidents. Sometimes, it’s simply too much to bear. And we ask ourselves: How can we comfort someone when that awful anniversary is looming?
Much has been written about what not to say. I won’t repeat all that advice here. But let me offer this: “I’m sorry” is always welcome. Tell a story about the loved one if you knew them. Give the grieving space to cry and to remember. You know your friend—do they need solitude, or do they prefer companionship? A quick call or text can help you know what they need before you show up.
The Red Ball of Grief
A friend once shared a story with me, one that I now pass along to others who are hurting. I hope it helps you or someone you love.
Think of your life as a box, filled with all your experiences. Then, one day, something terrible happens—a grief event. That grief becomes a big red ball inside your box.
At first, the ball is enormous. It touches all sides of your box at once, pressing against everything, overwhelming your ability to think, breathe, or function. The pain is constant. It’s always there.
But over time, something changes. Not the ball—it stays the same size—but the box gets bigger. As time moves forward, you add new experiences, relationships, and moments to your life. Your box expands.
The ball still bounces around. It still hits the sides of the box sometimes, and when it does, the pain comes rushing back. But now, it doesn’t hit as often. The intervals get longer. And sometimes, you can see it coming—birthdays, holidays, the anniversary of the loss.
You plan for it. You brace. You visit those who understand.
I went to see my widowed aunt and cousins on the first anniversary of my own loss. They knew what I needed: space, understanding, and a shared silence that said, “We get it.”
As time goes on, other red balls may enter your box. New losses. New grief. And they don’t replace the old ball—they bounce off each other. Sometimes they clash so forcefully that it’s hard to tell one sorrow from the next.
But now, you know. You’ve felt this before. You’ve grown. You’ve survived.
A great loss is not something you “get over.” It’s something you get through—and not alone. Sometimes you’re the one with the ball. Sometimes it’s someone else.
When you see their ball, don’t ignore it. You won’t remind them of their pain—they already feel it. What they might need is:
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Someone to hold them when the ball crashes into them.
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Someone to soften the blow.
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Or someone to tell a funny story about the person they lost.
Stories give shape to the ball. They help us remember with love instead of only pain. And sometimes, they help the ball bounce a little more gently.
A Prayer for the Grieving
Dear God in Heaven,
You suffered loss as we do.
Jesus lost His earthly father as a young man.
He lost His cousin John to a brutal murder.
He lost a dear friend in Lazarus.
And finally, Father, You lost Your Son to the cross.
You understand what it means to grieve.
We praise You for the promise of no more tears, no more sorrow, no more sickness or death.
Thank You that we feel loss so deeply because we have loved so intensely.
We long for the reunion we are promised.
In Christ alone,
Amen
