“It is hard to have patience with people who say, ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible.”
– C. S. Lewis –
Please note: Generally I spend days or weeks writing a post; carefully considering the tone, structure, and language. This post does not have that kind of curation. It is more raw and honest. I may return later to tidy it up, and add photos, but it was important for me to share more straightforward thoughts this time.
Dedicated with love to my Grandpa Theodore “Ted” Adamyk: Aug 16, 1925 – Feb 21, 2026
Grief is a tricky thing. Culturally it is something that we don’t know quite how to handle. This has not always been the case; for most of recorded human history there have been complex and nuanced rituals around times of grieving. Our forebears seemed to understand something that our modern world has largely forgotten: grief matters, takes time to process, and should be honored. In the present, grief feels like more of an inconvenience for the griever and those around them. “Try and carry on as normally as possible” is often the message, even if unspoken.
This cultural pressure takes on a curious twist in many Christian circles. We have grounded hope that even death is not a permanent parting. Yet the message often becomes “You shouldn’t be sad, you should be celebrating for someone who is now at peace!” In fact, it’s often stated as such, explicitly. And yet I wonder: “Why should we not grieve? Where is the wrongdoing?”
Imagine, if you will, a small military family. A husband, wife, and two children: a 5-year-old daughter and 1-year-old son. He serves in the army, and is preparing for a 9-month deployment. They expect his return, and look forward to it. Yet only a sadist would tell them, “Don’t be sad about him leaving! He’ll be back; it is foolish to allow yourself to feel pain at this temporary parting.”
Because that family knows: regardless of the hope of his return, the cost of his absence is painfully real. He will not experience his daughter’s school play that she has been working on for months (her first time on stage). She will have 9 months of her young and rapidly-changing life where he is not present to read her bedtime stories, or teach her how to ride a bicycle, or hold on his lap when she’s sick. He may miss his son’s second birthday, his first words or first steps. He and his wife will have 9 fewer months in one another’s presence: moments of quiet comfort making a meal together, moments of passion and intimacy, a gentle hug after a long day, someone to support when overwhelmed or sick, or share an inside joke with. Someone to answer the inevitable repeated questions, “Where is daddy? When is he coming home?”
His missing presence cannot be simply waved away. It’s real, and they will feel it. It’s 9 long months out of their lifetimes that will not be shared together, and at the end of it his children will be very different than when he left – even he and his wife will have changed.
The same applies to death, yet on a far more visceral level. Temporary separation is separation nonetheless, and it has its price. Our loved ones will not be present to see our triumphs and walk through our tragedies; to experience births and holidays and weddings and milestones. We will feel that absence, and I don’t believe it is healthy to pretend otherwise. And yet even as I write this, I sense this same tendency in myself. I realize that since Grandpa’s death (as well as at other points of past loss) I tend to be stoic and upbeat, suppressing grief and sadness. Perhaps this reflection is written to give myself permission to grieve as much as anyone else.
Christ himself wept at the tomb of Lazarus, just before raising him to life again. If anyone would have a reason to condemn grief, it would be in this situation. Yet He felt the loss of His friend, and saw how it affected his family. To not feel that would be less than human.
“It takes strength to face our sadness and to grieve and to let our grief and our anger flow in tears when they need to. It takes strength to talk about our feelings and to reach out for help and comfort when we need it.”
– Fred Rogers –
In times of loss, such as the recent loss of my Grandpa Ted, I often think about other losses as well; loved ones who will no longer be part of my life. With Grandpa: I miss the early mornings as a young child, sitting on his lap and sleepily watching the morning weather as he sipped his strong black coffee. I miss the ingenious snow fort tunnel he built one long winter, complete with a single electric bulb. I miss his quirky, dry sense of humor, such as when he delighted me with the “blackbird flew away” trick with a twinkle in his eye. More recently, I will miss seeing the tears in his eyes when he hugged me goodbye, not knowing if he would see me again.
I miss my Grandma Jeanette (reflection here), Grandma Donna, cousin Sarah, friends, extended family, and many others who have passed on. Nothing can replace their presence.
I sincerely wish for all of us to be able to have hope, fond memories, and some measure of peace in times of grief. But please do not ask yourself or others to minimize the pain of separation. Emotions are not binary: “Hope or despair.” Even the happiest occasions often carry some mixed feelings, and so it is with painful ones.
Grief is the price of love, and those who love must pay it. You are already processing the immensity of human separation and loss. Please don’t punish yourself for feeling its full weight.
just a kansas boy 
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