Running Head-on Into Grief – Stuart Segall

I ran into an older man I’d known years ago. I saw sorrow in his face from a distance, and he had not yet seen me, so when I saw him coming, I almost hid due to my own pain and depletion, but I didn’t. Life hasn’t been gentle with this guy. His marriage fell apart long ago, friendships faded, and outside of a modest relationship with his son, he doesn’t have many people left in his world.

When he saw me, something in him just broke open. He started sobbing, not the quiet kind, but the kind that comes from a heart that’s been carrying too much alone. He told me he had just put down his little dog, the one companion who’d stayed by his side for sixteen years. That dog wasn’t just a pet; he was the last steady presence in a life that had slowly emptied out.

He kept asking me why God lets this happen. Why do dogs live such short lives? Why love ends before the story is finished. They weren’t theological questions; they were the cries of a man who’d lost the one creature who made his days feel less lonely, the one soul who met him at the door every day without fail.

And standing there with him, I felt the truth of that quote: goodbyes hurt the most when the story wasn’t finished. His grief wasn’t just about losing a dog; it was about losing the future he quietly imagined, the routines that shaped his days, the companionship that made his solitude bearable. It was about losing the small, ordinary moments that had become the scaffolding of his life, the morning walks, the quiet evenings, the soft presence that asked for nothing but love.

When a story ends too soon, it leaves pages open, characters mid-sentence, a life still unfolding that suddenly has nowhere to go. The pain comes from love, from meaning, from the fact that the story mattered enough that its ending feels like a tear instead of a period. And sometimes the hardest part is that the world keeps moving while your heart is still standing in the doorway of what was.

Since I myself have been so depleted mentally and physically, all I could offer him was my presence, a gentle hand, my tears, and my time. And somehow, that felt like the only honest thing to give. There are moments when we don’t have answers, strength, or polished words, only the quiet offering of being there. And that is its own kind of mercy.

A verse rose up in the middle of it all, not as an answer, but as a quiet truth to stand beside him: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

Another verse echoed behind it, one that felt like it belonged in the space between his grief and the silence that followed: “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” (Psalm 147:3)

Oh my, it was all I had to give, but in that moment, that was enough. In the end, all I had to give was myself, and somehow, God made that enough. It is what we all have to offer without being skilled professionals. In moments like this, I remember: ‘Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.’(Galatians 6:2) Grief doesn’t always need answers. Sometimes it just needs a witness

We give our presence, a gentle hand, some heart, and time. And sometimes that small, human offering is the very thing that keeps someone from collapsing under the weight of their own sorrow. We aren’t called to fix every sorrow, only to show up with love in the places where hearts are breaking.

Contributing to many of the resources offered by Plain Truth Ministries, including the CWRblog, Stuart Segall writes from the state of Washington.  He has spent most of his adult life counseling, encouraging, inspiring and uplifting others.