Looking To The Sun

This morning, Tyson sent me a video from Instagram. It’s an account where a photographer/filmmaker stops strangers on the street. He listens to their stories and then takes beautiful pictures of them. It’s such a heartfelt page that shows the heart of humanity, which is so often lost amid the soundbites that flood our pages.

The video is of Thomas. I am not going to share his story because I want you to listen to it, but I am going to share with you what Tyson wrote to me, along with the video.

“On night one [this was our first night as bereaved parents], you slept in my arms. You hadn’t slept in my arms since we were newlyweds. As we lay there together, I wondered, “Will we sleep tonight or ever again?” In the quiet, between alternating cries, you asked, “Ty, what are we going to do?” I had no good answer for the traumatically uncharted waters such as this. As I blankly stared towards the darkness that seemed to swallow the bedroom window and us, I desperately tried to think of anything I could say to comfort you. I didn’t know what time it was, but I could imagine the rising sun trying to ease its rays through that window overlooking the garden sometime soon. Then from seemingly nowhere, these words just effortlessly came out, “I don’t know. But if that sun comes up in the east again, then so will we, and we’ll figure it out together.” I wonder if from that same “nowhere” those words were given to this gentleman in his time of mourning. I’d love to sit with him over a cup of coffee on that farm.

“…As surely as the sun rises,

he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains,

like the spring rains that water the earth.”

‭‭Hosea‬ ‭6‬:‭3‬ ‭NIV‬

And from that moment on, I began looking toward the sun.

For anyone reading this who may be standing in a similar darkness, whether from grief, fear, loss, or the weight of unanswered questions, I hope this encourages you. You do not need all the answers. You do not need to know what comes next. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply look toward the sun and trust that it will rise again.

Still looking to the sun,

Christy

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you would like it and share it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

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