It’s around 5:30 in the evening, and I’m heading home after a successful “baby catching” event for a colleague. My phone rings, and it’s my cousin. He asks if I’ve spoken to Mum. I respond, “No, why? Is something wrong?” He hangs up abruptly. I try calling back, but there’s no answer. My senses immediately go on high alert.
That Friday, I had planned to attend church for our usual end-of-month prayers. As we began to pray, I felt a profound heaviness settle over me. I whispered a quiet prayer, “God, I don’t know what’s coming, but please grant me the strength to face it.” I settled into my seat, waiting for our pastor’s sermon. Known for his fiery delivery, our pastor preaches with such intensity that each sermon feels like it could be his last.
Tonight’s sermon was about “Four Days Late,” focusing on the story of Lazarus and the idea that even when life’s events seem delayed, God can still bring them back to life. As I listened intently, someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to step outside. The messenger, with a somber tone, said, “I love you, but I have some difficult news.” In that moment, my mind flashed back to my cousin’s call and the uneasy feeling I’d had earlier.
The news was devastating: Dad had passed away. The world as I knew it shattered. I had loved my dad with all my heart.
Dad was my greatest supporter, the one who constantly reminded me of my worth and made me feel validated without needing anyone else’s approval. Now, I was left grappling with questions—how, where, and what happened. I learned that Dad had been traveling, had stopped to wait for his siblings, and then suddenly collapsed and passed away.
The days that followed were filled with intense pain—pain from not being able to say goodbye, pain from the harsh reality of his absence, and fear of what lay ahead. I immersed myself in every sermon about Lazarus I could find, trying to understand the strange coincidence of hearing such a sermon on that day. Amid the well-meaning clichés offered to the grieving, the one statement from a friend that has sustained me is, “Your dad has died, but God hasn’t. He is still your Father.”
A year has now passed. A year of disbelief and profound sorrow. They say time heals all wounds, but it feels like time has only allowed me to cry in private and maintain a brave front in public. This year has brought triumphs, yet the emptiness remains because Dad was always the first person I called with good news. Now, every piece of good news is a reminder of his absence. My birthdays, once marked by his song and a “chicken” on Mpesa, now serve as reminders of what I’ve lost. But c'est la vie...
Through it all, I’ve learned to take it one day at a time, offering myself grace on the tough days, and holding onto the hope that someday, I might find peace.
Why am I sharing this personal story on my blog? Because I’ve come to realize that even those of us who seem strong and professional face profound loss and grief. It’s okay to feel deeply, to cry, and to acknowledge your pain. It doesn’t make you any less human.
Have you experienced grief? How did you cope?
