What Friday blessing will we receive from Jesus today? We envision ourselves gazing into his warm and compassionate eyes, waiting for a good word. Jesus pauses for a moment, then quietly says to us,

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. (Matthew 5:4, NRSV)

Take a few moments to sit in the silence of his tender, caring presence.

If we reflect quietly for a while, our hearts may reveal many reasons to mourn. In recent years, loss has been all around us and often close to us. Are you grieving for someone today? Grief can also surprise us years later, when a moment or a memory suddenly reminds of someone dear. Of those loved ones who have passed on, whom do you miss most? In what way might you need to be comforted today? Envision Jesus listening and caring for you. Pour out your heart and let Jesus fill it with the soothing, healing comfort of God.


Grief and mourning are all around us. Today I am thinking of the people of Ukraine, the loved ones lost from the pandemic, the other stories of tragedy and sorrow we hear on the news each day. Jesus’s words of assurance are desperately needed and greatly appreciated.

What are the ways we receive the comfort of God when we mourn?

It may feel premature to bring up resurrection during Lent, but we certainly find great comfort in this, don’t we? While we mourn the loved ones we have lost, we can trust Jesus’s assurance that we will be comforted – because while we await the resurrection, Jesus has already experienced it. We can know that our time apart from our loved ones is a temporary time and we will one day be reunited forever.

The comfort of God is shared through the kindness of comforting people, too. We can be conduits of God’s comfort for one another, through listening, caring, serving, tending, remembering, and encouraging. Paul’s words remind us that in our pain we will receive the comfort of God – so that we in turn may console others:

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation, who consoles us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to console those who are in any affliction with the consolation with which we ourselves are consoled by God. For just as the sufferings of Christ are abundant for us, so also our consolation is abundant through Christ.  (2 Corinthians 1:3-5, NRSV)

My comfort also comes by regarding death as an expansion more than a loss. Jesus promised and sent his spirit after he had gone from our midst, and I like to think that our loved ones are with us in a similar way. Our loved ones remain in our hearts and in our memories, but they are also present in our love, our peace, our joy. I feel that their presence is forever with us, perhaps even more intimately than before.

In our sorrow, we may not be cheerful, but we can be hopeful. We may be raw, broken, lost, and incredibly sad, but we can feel the love of God with us in the mess. We may be struggling to make it through this day, but we can trust that a new and better day will come. God will keep transforming our grief with gifts of comfort, hope, peace, and – always – love.

See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.

(Revelation 21:3-4, NRSV)

Photo by Claire Kelly on Unsplash
Bible verses found at



  2. The comment I tried to post yesterday didn’t take…ah, the Internet. Can’t recall it now, so here’s a fresh try, same gist.

    It is my sincere belief,
    our tears are kept by our good Lord,
    but in this life I find that grief
    is something I cannot afford,
    for it is paralytic;
    there’s much yet to be done.
    The painful analytic
    is that tears must not run
    but must instead be offered up
    in a secret silence,
    a salty shining brimming cup
    that is a form of violence
    rendered unto mine own heart,
    perfected pain as work of art.

    My Chief Service Dog is fading. I wish I could weep.

    I hope there’s a cry-room in Heaven.


    • I have not endured all that you have, but I often find I do the same, Andrew. My tears begin, but then I brush them away and move on. I am not certain whether this is my eternal hope and optimism, or a protective shield on my heart.
      Thank you always for your insightful and eloquent words. Take care of you.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Karen, when grief tries to escape its bounds, this song and video offer comfort.

    I hope that it may do the same for you.


    • I have heard this song numerous times, but never with the depth I feel now. Thank you so much, my friend.


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