When Grief, Grace, and God Meet in the Middle

There are some things in life that you simply can not explain. Not because you lack the words, but because the experience is so deeply rooted in your spirit that words almost seem inadequate. Over the last year and a half, I have experienced what I can only describe as a spiritual awakening. Not the kind that comes with everything falling perfectly into place, but the kind that happens when your entire world has been shaken, your faith has been stretched, and you are left trying to make sense of a life you never imagined living. I’ve found myself connecting moments, conversations, numbers, memories, and experiences in ways I never did before. And the more I reflect, the more I find myself returning to the Word of God. Because sometimes the greatest spiritual revelations don’t happen in church. Sometimes they happen in the car, through tears, during conversations you never wanted to have.

Last night was one of those moments. As my daughter Taliyah and I were heading home, we found ourselves having a deeply emotional conversation. One that no mother ever imagines having with her child. We talked about life, death, losing her sister Jahmya, the changes happening within our family, and the transition taking place with her parents. It was one of those conversations where motherhood meets vulnerability. Where you want to be strong for your child, but you also recognize that you are human. That you, too, are still trying to understand the very things you are attempting to explain. And somewhere in the middle of that conversation, something crossed my mind.

Numbers.

Not just any numbers, but three numbers that suddenly felt connected to some of the most defining moments of my life. 50. 14. 36.

My mother was 50 years old when she passed away. My daughter Jahmya was 14 years old when she passed away. And when I subtracted those two ages, I got 36.

50 − 14 = 36. 

I sat with that for a moment because 36 was my age during one of the most painful, life-altering seasons I have ever experienced. Thirty-six was the age when life as I knew it began to unravel. The age when heartbreak became more than an emotion. It became something I carried into my mornings, my nights, my conversations, my prayers, and even my silence. It was the age when I experienced pain that I couldn’t simply pray away. The age when I began questioning things I thought I understood about life, love, marriage, motherhood, and even myself. Suddenly, those three numbers represented something much deeper than arithmetic. Fifty was the age I lost the woman who gave me life. Fourteen was the age I lost the daughter I gave life to. And thirty-six was the age when I found myself trying to figure out how to continue living with both losses written into my story.

I don’t know that there is some divine formula hidden within those numbers, and I won’t pretend that God revealed an explanation for my losses through subtraction. But I do believe God can meet us in the moments when we are searching for understanding. Last night, those numbers caused me to reflect on something I had not considered in quite that way before. I have spent so much of my life being somebody’s daughter, somebody’s mother, somebody’s partner, somebody’s strength, and somebody’s advocate. But who was I becoming in the middle of losing so much? Who was the woman underneath all the responsibilities, expectations, heartbreak, and grief? And more importantly, where was God’s grace in all of this?

Then another number came to mind.

17. 

For 17 years, I shared a life, built a family, created memories, endured seasons, made sacrifices, and held on to what I believed life and love were supposed to look like. For 17 years, I became comfortable with certain things simply because they were familiar. Somewhere along the way, I began confusing comfort with peace. I became so accustomed to surviving within my circumstances that I stopped questioning whether I was truly living in the fullness of who God created me to be. I knew how to show up for everyone else. I knew how to carry responsibilities, make things work, and keep moving even when I was emotionally exhausted. But somewhere in those years, I slowly lost sight of what it meant to feel seen, heard, valued, and appreciated. I had become so committed to maintaining what I had built that I wasn’t always acknowledging what I needed.

And then came another number.

30. 

Thirty days. It’s almost unbelievable to think that after 17 years of experiencing life one way, the last 30 days could awaken something in me that I had been longing to recognize for so long. Not because 30 days erased 17 years. Not because another person suddenly determined my value. But because, in such a short period, I began recognizing what had always been true. I was worthy before someone recognized my worth. I was deserving of intentionality before someone showed it to me. And I was valuable long before I began feeling valued. Those 30 days reminded me of the beauty of being heard without having to fight to be understood, of having conversations that stimulate my mind, of experiencing patience, kindness, consideration, and emotional connection. They reminded me that peace does not have to feel unfamiliar and that I don’t have to abandon myself to maintain a relationship.

Seventeen years taught me endurance. Thirty days reminded me of intentionality. And this season is teaching me discernment.

Because not every connection is meant to become our identity, and not every beautiful experience is a promise of what tomorrow will bring. But sometimes an experience can become a mirror, reflecting the parts of ourselves we had stopped seeing. I believe God can use those moments to remind us that our worth was never lost, even when our awareness of it became buried beneath life’s circumstances.

Seventeen years of familiarity. Thirty days of awakening. Thirty-six, the age when heartbreak changed my life. Fifty and fourteen, two ages forever etched into my heart. Different numbers, different seasons, and different lessons. Yet one consistent truth keeps meeting me in every chapter!

God’s grace has never stopped reaching me.

Perhaps that is what makes 2 Corinthians 12:9 so meaningful in this season. “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” 

For so long, I interpreted strength as my ability to endure without falling apart. To show up, keep serving, keep mothering, keep pouring into others, and continue being everything everybody needed me to be, even when I had very little left to give myself. But this season has been teaching me something different.

Grace is not the absence of pain.

Grace is God’s presence in the middle of it. 

Grace is being able to acknowledge that I am grieving and still deserving of joy.

Grace is realizing that I can love the people who are no longer physically here while learning to embrace the life that is still in front of me.

Grace is understanding that my marriage can be transitioning without my entire identity being reduced to what is changing.

Grace is being able to sit in a car with my daughter, have a difficult conversation about death, and still recognize the beautiful responsibility of nurturing the life sitting beside me.

Grace is not having all the answers and choosing to trust God anyway.

And perhaps one of the hardest lessons I am learning is that God’s grace does not always look like restoration of what was. Sometimes it looks like the courage to walk into what is next.

I think about my mother, and I think about Jahmya. Two different generations, two different relationships, and two different kinds of love. Both irreplaceable. And then I think about myself, the woman standing in the middle of those two losses, trying to navigate motherhood, identity, purpose, and faith. There was a time when I wanted God to give me my old life back. But the more I grow spiritually, the more I understand that I can’t go backward and become the woman I was before everything happened. That woman existed before she knew certain kinds of heartbreaks. This woman knows heartbreak intimately, but she is also learning grace intimately. I believe there is something sacred about that transformation. Not because suffering is something to celebrate, not because losing my mother or daughter was necessary for me to grow, and certainly not because I believe God needed to break my heart to get my attention. But because even after everything that has happened, God has not abandoned me.

That is the Gospel truth I am holding on to.

Jesus never promised us a life untouched by sorrow. In fact, He told us that we would experience trouble in this world, but He also reminded us that He has overcome the world. When I think about the cross, I am reminded that Christianity is not a faith disconnected from suffering. We serve a Savior who understands sorrow, a Savior who wept, and a Savior whose resurrection reminds us that suffering and death do not have the final word in God’s story. And while I cannot explain every painful chapter of mine, I can continue trusting the One who promises never to leave me. I am learning that God’s faithfulness is not measured by whether my circumstances turn out the way I prayed they would. His faithfulness remains, even when life looks nothing like I imagined.

Today, at 38, I am looking back at 36 with a different perspective. I am not pretending that everything has healed, and I am not claiming that every question has been answered. I still have days when grief is loud. I still have moments when memories overwhelm me. I still have conversations with God that begin with gratitude and end with tears. But I am learning that faith and grief can occupy the same space. That I can miss what was while appreciating what remains. That I can mourn the life I imagined while remaining open to the life I am still living. And that I can be a woman of faith without pretending to be a woman without pain. I am also learning that choosing myself does not mean I am selfish. It means I am finally acknowledging that the woman who has spent so many years caring for everyone else deserves care, consideration, and compassion, too.

So, what do these numbers mean to me? Fifty represents a mother whose love helped shape the woman I am. Fourteen represents a daughter whose life forever transformed mine. Thirty-six represents a season of heartbreak that challenged everything I thought I knew. Seventeen represents years of love, sacrifice, familiarity, and lessons that shaped my understanding of relationships. Thirty represents days that awakened a renewed awareness of my worth, my voice, and the peace I desire. And thirty-eight represents the woman I am becoming. A woman who is no longer asking God to return her to who she used to be. A woman who is learning that choosing herself does not mean abandoning her faith, her family, or her responsibilities. A woman who understands that she can be grateful for the past without remaining confined to it. A woman who is still grieving, still growing, still believing, and still becoming.

Maybe you, too, have been trying to make sense of things that have transpired in your life. Maybe you have experienced losses that changed the way you see the world. Maybe your relationship, your family, your identity, or your faith looks nothing like it once did. Maybe you have spent years accepting what was familiar because you didn’t know what peace could feel like. Maybe you’ve been asking God why certain things had to happen, why certain relationships changed, or why the life you prayed for looks so different from the life you are living. I want to encourage you to remember that you do not have to understand every chapter to trust that your story is still unfolding. You do not have to turn every painful experience into a lesson. You do not have to rush your healing to prove that you have faith. And you do not have to spend the rest of your life believing that what you have experienced is all you are worthy of receiving. Your worth was never determined by who stayed, who left, who recognized it, or who overlooked it. Your worth is rooted in the God who created you.

As I continue navigating this season, I am reminded of Psalm 34:18 (NLT) “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.” What a beautiful reminder that God does not require us to be whole before He draws near. He meets us in our brokenness, in our uncertainty, and in the moments when we don’t even know what to pray. Sometimes grace doesn’t arrive as an explanation. Sometimes it arrives as enough strength to make it through another day, enough peace to have a difficult conversation, or enough courage to acknowledge that something in our lives needs to change.

Fifty. Fourteen. Thirty-six. Seventeen. Thirty. Thirty-eight. Numbers that represent different chapters of my life. Numbers that carry memories, emotions, heartbreak, growth, and reflection. But the number that matters most to me today is ONE.

One God who has remained faithful through every season.

One life I am still learning to live.

One woman rediscovering her God-given worth.

One day at a time.

And one promise I will continue holding close: His grace is sufficient.

I spent 17 years learning how to endure. Over the last 30 days, I have been intentional about living. And through it all, God’s grace has been teaching me that I was never created to merely exist. I am not starting over because my life meant nothing before this moment. I am moving forward because my life still has meaning beyond everything I have experienced.

Even here. Even now. Even in the garden of grief.

With love, faith, and grace,

Jamara Brooks