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  My dad died last week. I had been anticipating it for a while. His body had been slowly failing for years—Parkinson’s disease, congestive heart failure, and perhaps things we never fully understood. His death wasn’t a shock, but it still shattered something inside me. Because outside of my wife, my best friend died. He was more than a father. He was a steady presence, a quiet protector, a man who helped me steer clear of destructive patterns common to many young men—not by shame or force, but by showing up. He used to lean against my bedroom doorframe at night and just ask what was on my mind. No pressure, no preaching. Just presence. We’d talk about what I was afraid of. What I didn’t understand. What I hoped for. He played catch with me almost every evening the weather allowed. He came to every basketball game and every baseball game. I can still see him sitting in the stands—arms crossed, calm smile on his face—rarely yelling, just there. I never had to wonder if he was proud of me. I knew. He carried himself with a kindness and gentleness that made me feel steady. He didn’t draw attention to himself. He didn’t try to be impressive. But there was a quiet strength in him—a calm that helped anchor me when I needed it. He wasn’t loud or forceful, but he was consistent, present, and kind. He was strong in the ways that mattered most. He lead me as I learned to live into who God made me to be. They say a heart attack took him. But it was years of sickness that prepared me for it. Still, when he went, he went quickly and without pain. For that, I’m deeply grateful. My dad grew up on a small dairy farm. He’d tell stories of a fast-running stream, of rolling hills, of a slingshot mishap that earned him more trouble than he planned. He talked about a legalistic church that pushed him away from the Lord in his youth—and about the wandering that followed. He had a slightly hippie-ish streak, a rebellious edge softened by curiosity and kindness. And then came a near-death experience—one that turned his heart back to God. That moment changed the course of his life. It led to a 55-year marriage with my mom, and a life marked by faithfulness, loyalty, quiet dedication, and deep love—for both creation and the Creator. He also loved children’s literature. He read me E.B. White, Charles Schulz, and Donald Duck comics. He wrote magazine stories, and even a book where I was the main character. He delighted in those stories, not just because they were fun, but because they held beauty, humor, and truth. That love of words was one of the many ways he poured himself into my life. He didn’t just tell stories. He lived one—a good one. And I got to be part of it. The Kindness of Others—and the Limits of Words Since his passing, people have been incredibly kind. Friends and colleagues—many of them counselors, as I’m at a residency training other therapists—have offered their support. They’ve told me they’re sorry. They’ve asked what they can do. They’ve told me they’re praying. They’ve sat beside me in the quiet. It’s all well-meant, and I am deeply thankful. But there’s a strange truth about grief: I don’t need people to be sorry. They haven’t done anything wrong. And honestly, I don’t want to tell the story of what happened another fifty times. I don’t want to narrate his death. I want someone to sit with me in the weight of it. What I need most is something no words can give. I need presence. When my strength falters, I need others to be strong beside me—not to talk me out of my pain, but to stand in it with me. To point me quietly back to Jesus. Not with advice or even encouragement. But with silence, compassion, and presence. And honestly? Many of the people around me have done this well. They didn’t rush in with sermons or platitudes. They didn’t minimize the pain. They didn’t fix it. They stayed. Their kindness taught me what we often forget—even as counselors. What Mourning People Really Need Grief doesn’t ask for answers. It doesn’t require theology. It demands witness—someone to acknowledge the depth of loss and not turn away. And yet, many of us, even those trained to sit with sorrow, still rush in to make things better. We offer clichés. We fumble with tasks. We do something to avoid doing nothing. But here’s the truth: in grief, nothing is often the most powerful thing you can offer. What to Do When Someone Is Mourning Grief is not something to be solved. It’s something to be witnessed, honored, and carried. When someone you love is mourning, your job is not to fix it. It’s to show up and stay. Here’s what that actually looks like: 1. Be Present—Not Performative Don’t try to be profound. Don’t force conversation. Just be present. Sit down. Stay longer than is comfortable. When you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. 2. Offer Simple, Specific Help “Let me know if you need anything” puts the burden back on the grieving. Instead, offer something tangible: “Can I bring you a meal? Would Tuesday work?” “Can I watch the kids for two hours?” “Would a walk together help?” 3. Acknowledge the Loss—Then Let Silence Do the Work You can say “I’m so sorry.” You don’t need to ask for details. Retelling a loved one’s death can retraumatize. Let the grieving person offer what they want, when they want. 4. Avoid Platitudes and Preaching Don’t say “He’s in a better place” or “Everything happens for a reason.” Even quoting Scripture can feel like a dismissal when not invited. The truth of God is not the same as the timing of God. Be sensitive. 5. Be the One Who Remembers Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. The day of the funeral isn’t the end—it’s the beginning. Text them one month later. Say their loved one’s name. Show up again. And again. 6. Pray Without Preaching Yes, pray. But don’t pray the pain away. Sit with it. Welcome God into it. Let your prayer be, “Lord, be near.” Why Presence Matters: Because That’s What Jesus Gave Why does it matter that we offer presence instead of platitudes? Why resist the urge to fill silence with words or offer help only when asked? Because this is exactly how Jesus met those in mourning. His actions weren’t reactive. They were incarnational. Jesus didn’t just perform miracles—He entered sorrow. He saw people in their pain, understood what that pain cost them, and moved toward them with compassion before they even knew what to ask. One of the most powerful examples of this is found in Luke 7, when Jesus encounters a widow whose only son has died. She didn’t plead. She didn’t have to. Her grief was enough. Biblical Reflection: Jesus and the Widow of Nain Luke 7:11–17 – Compassion That Restores a Life Jesus is walking into the small village of Nain when He sees a funeral procession. A widow is burying her only son. She says nothing. She doesn’t even know He’s coming. But Jesus sees her—and everything that her son’s death represents. In first-century Jewish society, widows were some of the most vulnerable people. Without a husband or son, a woman had no legal standing, no source of provision, no social safety net. This woman wasn’t just grieving her child. She was facing total collapse—financial, relational, communal. Darrell Bock notes: “The son’s death meant more than personal grief. It meant social death. It meant poverty, marginalization, and abandonment” (Bock, 1994, p. 213). Jesus doesn’t wait for her to call out. He moves first. He sees her, and Luke tells us He is “moved with compassion” (v. 13). The Greek word used is splagchnizomai—a gut-wrenching, deeply felt compassion. Jesus isn’t just noticing. He is feeling with her. He touches the bier—an unclean act under Jewish law—because grief never kept Him at a distance. He enters it. And when He raises the son, Luke records: “Jesus gave him to his mother” (v. 15). He restores her—not just her son, but her future. R. Kent Hughes writes: “Jesus not only raised her son, He raised her future” (Hughes, 1998, p. 249). This is the model: Jesus saw the depth of loss, and He entered it. He didn’t rush to fix. He didn’t avoid the mess. He stood in it, touched it, and restored from within it. That is our call too. For the Christian Counseling Community This is where we can grow—not just in theory, but in practice. In the presence of real grief, people don’t need advice. They need presence. Not polished words. Not clever insight. Not strategic support. They need us to stay. To sit in sacred silence. To bring Jesus not by explaining Him—but by embodying His nearness. This is how we reflect Him. This is how we become safe places for the mourning. So the next time you sit with someone who has lost what they loved, resist the urge to say more than you should. Stay. And trust that your quiet presence may be the most Christlike thing you ever offer. References (APA 7th Edition) Bock, D. L. (1994). Luke 1:1–9:50 (Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament). Baker Academic. Hughes, R. K. (1998). Luke: That You May Know the Truth (Preaching the Word Commentary Series). Crossway.

Tall, Anxious, and In Need of Community: A Therapist’s Reflection When I was 12 years old—well, technically the summer I turned 13—I was already 6’1”. That summer, I grew to 6’6”. The summer after that? Another inch. And again the next year. I stopped at 6’8”. Catch your breath before realizing just how tall that is. I’ve heard every tall joke you can imagine: “How’s the weather up there?” “Do you play basketball?” “Where do you even buy your pants?” The comments were constant. Today, they don’t bother me as much. I’ve done enough work over the years. But it wasn’t always like that. You might wonder why it ever bothered me at all—aside from the growing pains, stretch marks, and the near-impossibility of finding clothes. But the comments weren’t what hurt the most. It was the rejection. The laughter. The public humiliation. I remember one moment vividly. I was walking behind two guys from my basketball team—one I thought was a friend. He wasn’t. He turned to my actual friend and mocked me. Said I was “goofy,” “too long,” and “barely able to run.” He had no idea I was behind him. But I was. When he turned around and saw me standing right there, the look on his face changed. “Oh man, you know I was just kidding,” he stammered. But I didn’t know what to say. I stood there, caught between embarrassment and fury, shame and silence. I knew I was awkward. I didn’t need someone else to say it. That was the year it really got to me. I went from coordinated and skilled to unsure and lanky. I grew five inches in three and a half months. At one point, I was 6’6” and weighed just 160 pounds. At my high school peak, I was 6’8” and 185. It’s hard to feel strong when your body feels like scaffolding. But it wasn’t just physical awkwardness that created emotional turmoil. Anxiety runs in my family. I heard stories of my dad and my grandmother sitting around talking about what worried them. I never got to meet my grandmother—she died of breast cancer before I was born—but I’ve been told she was too afraid to go to the doctor. Too afraid to drive. In all other ways, she was described as an amazing woman: kind-hearted, loving, godly, generous, and gentle. The same words could be used to describe my father. But anxiety was part of their story. And I learned from them. From their stories. From watching my dad over the years. Anxiety, I discovered, is a coping mechanism. Being tall didn’t cause my anxiety. But it became the vehicle through which it rode in. I was teased, ostracized, isolated. I longed to be accepted—not even admired, just accepted. I understood theology early. I loved Jesus. But I still wanted friends, connection, community. For many therapists, we believe we’re immune. We sit on the healing side of the couch. We’re the ones who help others work through the hard stuff. But around 7 or 8 years ago, I realized: I needed therapy too. And I needed it badly. Reprocessing those middle school memories—especially from grades 6 to 9—was painful. EMDR brought them back up like an unexpected flood. I’ve had clients look at me with tears and confusion after an EMDR session and ask, “What did you do to me?” My answer is always the same: “We’re pulling up 50 years of emotion that’s been stuffed away. Of course it’s going to hurt.” I know this pain. I’ve lived it. And though I’ve grown into my frame and healed many wounds, I still wrestle with feeling out of place. Fitting in hasn’t always come easy. Some of my closest friendships today are with the faculty I teach alongside at Colorado Christian University. They’ve lived through sorrow. Some have battled self-harm. Some have survived abuse. Many have carried the burdens of others long before they knew how to carry their own. We need those kinds of people. The ones who sit with us in the pain. Who don’t look away. Who don’t offer platitudes. We need real community. Tim Keller once described true love as love that is given without requirement. Love without condition, like Christ’s love for us (Keller, 2011). We cannot love that way until we have dealt with our own stories. Until we’ve stopped pretending our pain is irrelevant or distant. Until we’ve stopped minimizing how our past has shaped our present. Therapists, I believe, are uniquely shaped by pain. We often have higher expectations of people—not because we’re judgmental, but because we’ve seen what people are capable of when they’re at their worst and still hoping for healing. But that healing begins with us, too. At Remnant Counselor Collective, and in my own life, my prayer is that we create spaces of community like this—where we give without expecting, love without requiring, and serve without resenting. I don’t need to be accepted by some snotty high schoolers anymore. I need to walk closely with Jesus and surround myself with those who do the same. And maybe you need that too. References Keller, T. (2011). The meaning of marriage: Facing the complexities of commitment with the wisdom of God. Dutton.