05/30/2026
This might be one of the most well-written descriptions of grief I’ve seen. Please pray for this pastor and his family after the devastating loss of his son Evan.
Three weeks ago today, my son Evan stepped into eternity. I thought the days would start to feel lighter by now. They haven’t. If anything, the weight feels heavier. I don’t have this figured out. I’m stumbling through it just like so many of you. Some days I feel like a pastor who should have stronger faith or better words, but right now I’m mostly just a broken dad trying to breathe.
Grief isn’t a tidy process with neat stages. It’s a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute reality that can overtake you without warning. Every memory hurts. I close my eyes and see his face, hear his laugh, remember the way he filled a room—and the tears come. I dream about him at night and wake up reaching for a reality that isn’t there anymore. Guilt tries to creep in too: Did I do enough? Say enough? Love him well enough? The questions are relentless.
To those of you who have walked this road of child loss, I see you. I’m right there with you in the fog. This pain is immense because the love was immense. Grief is loving someone who’s no longer here to receive it. There is no “getting over it.” There is only learning, slowly and painfully, how to carry it. Some days you’ll feel like you’re drowning. Other days you’ll manage to put one foot in front of the other. Both are okay. God is not offended by your tears—Jesus wept too.
To those who haven’t lost a child: please understand that this kind of grief is almost impossible to explain. It’s not just sadness. It’s an amputation of the heart. Comments like “He’s in a better place” or “Time heals all wounds” can land like bricks on a bruised soul, even when spoken with love. What helps most is simple presence. “I’m here. I’m praying. I’m listening if you want to talk about him.” Say his name. Let us talk about our children who are gone. It keeps their memory alive in this world.
If you’re walking through this valley right now, here are a few things I’m learning (even as I stumble through them):
• It’s okay to cry. Every single time. The tears honor him.
• Let people help. Let them bring meals, sit in silence with you, or handle things you can’t face yet.
• Speak his name. Evan. I will keep saying it.
• Cling to the Lord even when you don’t feel Him. Some days my prayers are just tears and groans. That’s enough.
• Be gentle with yourself. There is no timeline. The world may move on, but your heart doesn’t have to.
If you’re grieving today, you’re not alone in this heavy valley. I’m still right here in it with you, not as someone who has it all together, but as a fellow traveler leaning on grace. I may not be able to respond to every message—that feels impossible right now—but please know your story matters deeply to me. We can cry, remember, pray, or just sit in it together. Evan’s life mattered. He is loved and missed beyond words. And one day, by God’s grace, we will see our children again with no more tears.
Until then, we carry on with broken hearts in the hands of a God who specializes in broken things.
— Pastor Greg Locke
