MY DAD died suddenly from a disease so rare in the UK that doctors almost missed it entirely: cryptic malaria. It was a diagnosis almost unheard of — the disease probaby contracted during a trip to Hamburg, or even at Heathrow. The odds were minuscule. And yet it happened.
It didn’t seem real, then. Some days, it still doesn’t. Wednesday (23rd) marked the first anniversary of his death. In some ways, it feels like a lifetime; in others, like yesterday.
In the weeks that followed, people tried to offer comfort. “Don’t let your pain change you,” some said. But isn’t that the point? Pain does change us. It changed Jesus.
When he stood outside Lazarus’s tomb, the crowd murmured, “Look how much he loved him.” Jesus, fully divine and fully human, wept. He sobbed. That moment matters deeply to me now. In his tears, I see permission to mourn — a sacred permission that every tear matters. His grief binds him to us. There is togetherness in our pain, and that changes everything.
That’s the thing about grief: it doesn’t follow logic or fairness. It has no script — no manual, no checklist, no step-by-step guide. We’re all stumbling forward, figuring it out as we go. That’s why grace is essential — grace for ourselves, grace for others. We grieve differently. We heal imperfectly. And we carry the scars, not as shame, but as part of the story.
MY DAD knew something about walking with others through pain. He fostered me when I was just 15, when life had offered more closed doors than open ones. He didn’t just give me a roof: he gave me a home of belonging. He became my family. He taught me to love life without limits.
And perhaps that’s why I’ve often thought about Joseph — Jesus’s earthly father — who also stepped into a part he didn’t expect, loving a child that wasn’t biologically his. The Bible is mostly silent on Joseph’s death, but we know it happened. And that silence now speaks volumes to me. Jesus likely bore that grief quietly, stepping into the responsibilities that Joseph left behind.
Craig with his father, Gary
But Joseph was not Jesus’s only loss. His cousin, John the Baptist, was executed by a corrupt despot. Another blow. And then came Lazarus. When Jesus arrived and found him four days gone, he didn’t preach. He didn’t explain. He wept.
Jesus gets it. He gets me. His suffering wasn’t detached or sanitised — it was real, raw, and rooted in love. That truth became an anchor for me. Because, when I lost my dad, I didn’t need a theory. I needed a Saviour who understood.
And, even in his suffering, Jesus looked outward. The Gospels say that he had compassion on the crowds. The Latin root — compati — means “to suffer with”. That’s exactly what Jesus does. He co-suffers. He stays. He weeps with us.
IN THE early months of my grief, I found myself held — not just by God, but by the people he sent to walk beside me. Friends who prayed, cried, and remembered. Family who stood when I couldn’t stand alone.
Their presence reminded me of Ruth walking beside Naomi: “Where you go, I will go.” That’s what grace looks like — people who stay and pray.
And it made me think of geese flying in formation. They take turns leading. They honk encouragement to one another. When one falls behind, others stay until it can fly again.
That’s what community looks like. That’s how we are meant to grieve: not in isolation, but in formation.
And, somehow — mysteriously, tenderly — God turned my father’s death into a strange, sacred gift. Not because the loss wasn’t real, but because the love was. A love shared in community. A love anchored in Christ. A greater love, that opened a door to a greater joy in God. Not a brittle kind of joy that denies sorrow, but biblical joy. A fruit of the Spirit. A joy rooted in peace, sustained by hope, and strengthened by courage. A joy that whispers: You are not alone. A joy that says: Jesus is here. And he gets it. Because all the tears, and the stolen years, won’t stop Christ offering communion with me. That is the gift I never expected — and the grace I will never forget.
DAD preached the gospel on Sunday, and died on Tuesday. In his final sermon, he wrote this: “We’re all on a journey with Jesus. We know the destination, but we don’t know exactly how we’ll get there or what will happen on the way — that’s the beauty of pilgrimage.”
He was right. And, even through grief, that pilgrimage has brought me more unexpected joy.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be. And there’s no easy way of travelling on my healing road ahead. I still miss Dad every day. But, now, I carry both sorrow and a greater joy. And I know I don’t walk alone — not in life, not in grief, not on this pilgrimage.
Grief is tough. But don’t get lost in it, because love is everlasting.
The Revd Craig Philbrick is Vicar of St Paul’s, Weston-Super-Mare, in the diocese of Bath & Wells.
