Grief and Hope

“It’s difficult to grieve something you still have hope for.”

It really is.

Because grief usually means letting go.
But how do you let go when part of you is still holding on with white knuckles and watery eyes?
Still praying they’ll change.
Still hoping for the healing.
Still imagining the version of the story where they finally saw you, loved you well, and made it right.

This is the kind of grief that doesn’t get casseroles and sympathy cards.
Because from the outside, it looks like nothing was lost.
But your heart knows different.

You’re grieving the parent you needed them to be.
You’re grieving the version of them you caught glimpses of—the softness, the warmth, the effort you hoped would stick.
You’re grieving the childhood you didn’t get, the apologies you may never hear, the safety you still long for even now.

And you wonder:
Is it wrong to hope and grieve at the same time?
No, sweet friend. It’s not wrong. It’s real.

You’re human. And being human means you’re allowed to feel the ache and hold onto hope.
To set boundaries but still cry over what they could’ve been.
To walk away and still wish they would’ve changed.
To surrender the outcome and still pray for reconciliation.

Let that complicated grief bring you closer to the One who understands it all.
Jesus stood outside of Lazarus’ tomb and wept—even though He knew resurrection was coming.

So maybe you’re standing in your own kind of in-between.
Not fully letting go. Not fully holding on.
But you’re not alone here.
Jesus is standing with you—full of compassion, full of understanding, full of power.
And He weeps with you too.

Grieve what you need to grieve.
Hope how your heart dares to hope.
And trust that God sees both.

He holds your tears and your dreams.
Your heartbreak and your hallelujah.
And He is faithful in the tension between the two.