Both students together at Wheaton, & a beloved friend whom I highly esteem, I’ve seen how Aubrey Sampson, a truly incredible writer and thinker, is passionate about walking with those who are hurting, especially those who wonder where God is in their pain, not as an expert but as a guide and fellow-traveler. Her first children’s book, which is AMAZING, Big Feelings Days: A Book about Hard Things, Heavy Emotions, and Jesus’ Love was written as a gift for a family in her church. What Aubrey didn’t know is how God would go before her, giving her words that she would need herself, as she faced an unexpected loss of her own. It’s an absolute joy to welcome Aubrey to the farm’s table today…

Guest Post by Aubrey Sampson

I pick up the phone on the first ring, knowing that the mama who is calling me is in deep agony.

Just a few months earlier, my husband and I—her and her family’s pastors—led and lamented with her family through an unexpected ceremony—a funeral for their stillborn baby girl.

If you have known this kind of formidable loss yourself, you know that it is both a goodbye to a precious gift and a goodbye to a precious dream. Child loss is layered, ongoing, and frankly, excruciatingly brutal.

The question this mama is calling about is—in true motherly fashion—not for her own sake but for the sake of her three other young children. They are experiencing so much sadness and confusion over the death of their baby sister, and this mama is looking for some handholds for them.

“Death is a comma, not a period…”

“Do you know of any grief resources?” she asks. “For them? For my little ones?”

“I can find books and podcasts out there for me and my husband,” she continues, “but I am struggling to find something for my kids, something age-appropriate and Jesus-focused.”

“Let me look around and get back to you,” I say.

I search online and at all the usual bookstore places, and there are, of course, some beautiful treasures in this grief space. But I cannot find many books for little ones who are holding big feelings of loss and anger, at least not ones that also explain what Jesus does with our big feelings.

I call my publisher and leave a message, “Hey, I am looking for something in this category. Got any recommendations?”

She calls me back almost immediately and says, “We think you need to write it.”

I’ve been writing, speaking, and podcasting about lament, grief, and big feelings for the past several years. So her idea makes sense.

“My faith tells me that God is always, always, always coming toward us with love, even in hardship—maybe especially in hardship.”

My faith tells me that God is always, always, always coming toward us with love, even in hardship—maybe especially in hardship.

The Christian faith is never shy about mentioning that pain and suffering are part of the package. But what I didn’t know, couldn’t know, is that as I began writing for this precious family in my church, my best friend—my ride-or-die of over 25 years—would be diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer and go home to Jesus just two years later.

What I didn’t know is that as I was writing, I would be learning to say goodbye.

Jenn, my best friend, was on hospice for just under a week before she passed, and the two of us spent many hours together on her hospice bed, crying, laughing, remembering, trading final sacred secrets. We don’t always get the privilege of saying goodbye to those we love, so I am unbelievably grateful for this strange gift.

One night, Jenn asked me a vulnerable question. Several tender questions, actually.

“Aubrey, what will it be like?”

Will my son (a child she lost after 36 hours of life) know me? Will I know him?

Will my relationship with my family members, those who I haven’t talked to in years, be okay?

Will going be peaceful, not scary?

I said yes to everything.

Yes, he’ll know you. Yes, it will be okay with your family. Yes, it will be peaceful.

It’s not like I know these answers; ironically, Jenn knows them now. But what I do know is that in death, as in life, Jesus is faithful. Death is a comma, not a period, and my friend is on the other side of the veil—healthy, whole, and held and cheering the rest of us on.

And while I grieve with hope, I also grieve heartily, heavily. Grief is a solid meal, not a snack; it’s too much to swallow, too intense to take in.

“Grief is a solid meal, not a snack; it’s too much to swallow, too intense to take in.“

I have known loss before, but what has surprised me most this past year are all the feelings—not only of sadness but also of fear, anger, doubt, disequilibrium, exhaustion, fogginess, fatigue, sleeplessness, nausea.

There is often a little child part in us who needs to know how deeply loved, held, and accepted we are—especially when our emotions feel messy, like they are spilling everywhere.

Something I have begun to whisper regularly to myself this year, something you might need to hear, dear reader, if you are in the thick of pain and suffering yourself, is actually something I wrote for that precious family in our church:

“God made you, and God made your Big Feelings, too. Jesus loves you soooo much, and Jesus loves your Big Feelings.”

The gift of Jesus—for that little hurting child inside of you or for that little hurting child you care for—is this: because Jesus took on flesh, because he came into the world as a limited baby with unlimited power, he knows, welcomes, accepts, and loves our big feelings.

Jesus holds and heals all our big feelings.

In Psalm 34:18, Scripture makes a promise, a promise for now: “If your heart is broken, you’ll find God right there” (MSG). Revelation 21:3-5 makes yet another promise, a promise for the future. It says, “Look! Look! God has moved into the neighborhood, making his home with men and women! They’re his people, he’s their God. He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes. Death is gone for good—tears gone, crying gone, pain gone. . . . Look! I’m making everything new” (MSG).

“Heartache is a comma, grief is a semicolon, death is a dash—all because of Jesus’ own death and resurrection.“

These Scriptures, providing promises of hope now and hope one day, remind us that we are never alone in our heartache. Why? Because God is near. God is among the afflicted. And? Our heartache will never be the final period or exclamation mark on our story.

Heartache is a comma, grief is a semicolon, death is a dash—all because of Jesus’ own death and resurrection.

In Him, we can cling to the hope that one day, all things—even the most awful things like loss and sadness and unjust deaths—will be repaired. They will be sewed up and mended by the hands of God himself.

If you are carrying grief the weight of gravity, if you are swallowing more than you can stand, if you feel alone and unsure of how to lead others through it, take heart.

God is always, always coming toward you with love. Jesus loves you and your big feelings, too.

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