💔 When the Wave Hits Hard: Losing Someone You Love

By Dr. Tim Orr

Some waves don’t just knock you down—they redefine you. When I lost my wife of 23 years, I wasn’t just grieving the absence of a person; I was grieving the loss of a future we had imagined together. One moment, we were navigating life hand in hand—raising our daughter, praying through the storms, celebrating small joys—and the next, I was alone in a silence that felt unbearable. The grief came fast, and it came hard. But what made it all the more crushing was looking into the eyes of our 6-year-old daughter and seeing both her sorrow and her trust in me. I wasn’t just mourning a spouse; I was suddenly a single parent, thrust into a role I never asked for, trying to find footing in a world that no longer felt familiar. And yet—somehow—God sustained us both.

Those early days were a blur of emotion. People would speak to me, and I would nod politely, but inside I felt like I was underwater, unable to fully breathe. I smiled for my daughter’s sake, but inside I was unraveling. Every room in the house held memories I couldn’t escape: her voice, her laughter, her touch. Nights were the hardest. When the world quieted down, my pain turned up the volume. I cried in the dark, sometimes out loud, sometimes silently. In those moments, I wondered if I would ever feel whole again.

God Is Near to the Brokenhearted

Grief is not linear, and it’s certainly not polite. It shows up without warning—in the middle of the grocery store aisle, in a familiar song on the radio, in the scent of her perfume still clinging to an old sweater. But it’s in those unraveled places that I learned the truth of Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” God did not shame my sorrow. He met me in it. He didn’t demand I move on—He invited me to let Him in. He sat with me in the pain, not above it.

One of the most powerful images in Scripture is also one of the shortest verses: “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). He knew Lazarus would live again, yet He wept because grief matters. He didn’t try to fix the moment before honoring the pain. That image gave me permission to grieve without guilt. If Jesus, the Son of God, saw death and wept, then surely I can do the same. And in my tears, I began to sense that God wasn’t on the other side of my healing—He was present in my breaking.

There were moments when I had no words—only groans, only tears—and yet, Romans 8 reminded me that the Spirit intercedes for us “with groanings too deep for words.” That truth anchored me. I didn’t need perfect prayers; I just needed presence—and His presence was always there. Sometimes it came through a timely verse, sometimes through the hug of a friend, and sometimes through the quiet stillness that said, “You’re not alone.” God wasn’t in a hurry. He was patient with my pain.

When You Feel Like You’re Drowning

There were days I felt like I was drifting—unmoored, detached from everything I once knew. Losing a spouse is not just the loss of a person; it’s the loss of a rhythm, of shared responsibilities, of small, everyday conversations that once tethered you to life. I missed the warmth of her next to me, the way she laughed at my jokes, the knowing look we’d exchange during dinner when our daughter said something funny. In those moments, I felt like the tide was too strong, like I was barely keeping my head above water. And yet, even when I couldn’t sense Him, God was holding me.

Isaiah 43:2 became a lifeline: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.” God didn’t promise the waters wouldn’t rise—He promised they wouldn’t overtake me. Even when my faith was weak, His grip on me never loosened. Some nights I would whisper that verse aloud just to remind myself that I wasn’t abandoned. And over time—not quickly, not cleanly, but truly—those moments of drowning turned into moments of being carried.

I began to notice small mercies. A kind word from a stranger. A moment of laughter with my daughter. A sudden sense of peace during prayer. These glimpses didn’t erase the pain, but they reminded me that I wasn’t adrift. God was there. Not always speaking, but always present. He didn’t pull me out of the storm right away—but He sat with me in the boat and never left.

The Hope We Hold

As Christians, we cling to the hope that death is not the end. And that hope became more than theology to me—it became oxygen. My wife knew Jesus. She trusted Him, loved Him, and walked with Him. That truth doesn't lessen the pain of missing her, but it changes the lens through which I grieve. There is a resurrection coming. There is a reunion on the horizon.

Paul writes in 1 Thessalonians 4:13 that we do not “grieve like those who have no hope.” He doesn’t say we don’t grieve—he simply says we grieve differently. We grieve with one foot in sorrow and the other in eternity. I hold tightly to the promise that one day, every tear will be wiped away (Revelation 21:4). One day, death will die. But even before that day, God is already bringing life out of loss.

That truth has begun to bear fruit in my daughter. The child I feared I might fail has become one of the most beautiful, resilient, joy-filled people I know. I see grace written across her life. I see hope in her eyes. Somehow, God has written redemption into our story—not by removing the pain, but by sustaining us through it.

Final Thought

You might not be okay right now. And I want you to know, that’s okay. Grief has no expiration date. Healing is not a straight path. But the God who weeps with you is also the God who walks beside you, who steadies you, who redeems your sorrow piece by piece.

He doesn’t waste a single tear. He doesn't demand a tidy faith. He invites you to bring your questions, your heartache, your silence. And in return, He gives Himself. If you’re gasping for breath in the wake of loss, hear this: God sees you. He’s not in a hurry. He’s not far off. And He’s not finished writing your story.