Holding grief, without fixing it
Sometimes I wonder if it still makes sense to talk about wonder, awe, play, and creativity during times of grief. Is there really space in these things for lament?
But grief doesn’t cancel out these things. It offers a way to hold it without trying to fix it. Sometimes they’re the only places that can adequately express our lament.
This is how they often show up in grief.
Wonder and Awe
In grief, wonder may get quieter: less “Isn’t this beautiful?” and more, “How can there still be beauty and laughter when everything feels so broken?” That question doesn’t need an answer, it’s already a way of naming grief.
Awe doesn’t always feel comforting. Sometimes it can feel overwhelming or even unsettling: standing before something you can’t make sense of (God, loss, love, mystery) is familiar ground when you’re grieving. The Psalms hold this kind of awe: honest, reverent, and unresolved.
Wonder and awe in times of grief allow room for lament and require honesty. But where do we put this kind of wonder and awe when we’re carrying grief?
Play through Creativity
Play in grief isn’t silly or escapist. It’s just about low-stakes presence. It gives your body and nervous system a place to rest without asking for meaning or productivity. It says, You’re allowed to be here without explaining yourself.
Creativity is one of the oldest ways people have expressed lament. Before grief has words, it often shows up as marks, movement, sound, silence, tears. We don’t create to feel better. We create to tell the truth, even when that truth feels raw or incomplete.
Lament belongs here because:
lament isn’t the opposite of faith; it’s honesty
lament doesn’t need resolution
lament needs space more than answers
Wonder, awe, play, and creativity don’t move grief along. They make room for it and remind us that:
you don’t have to be okay
you don’t have to have the right words
you don’t have to move on
This is why wonder, awe, play, and creativity matter so much to me. They aren’t extras we return to once we’re okay again. They are ways of staying present to God and to ourselves when life is hard. They make space for honesty, for silence, for unfinished prayers. And sometimes, that is what faith looks like, choosing to remain in relationship, even when all we have to offer is our lament.
A Gentle Practice for Lament
Settle your body. Take a few slow breaths.
Name what feels heavy, simply and honestly:
What is heavy right now is…
As you sit with that, choose one simple action:
make slow marks with a pencil, pen, crayon, or paint
move your hands through clay or dough
trace lines on paper without lifting your pen
Let your hands move without trying to make something good or meaningful.
When you’re ready, pause. Place a hand on your heart or the table.
Say quietly: Nothing needs to be fixed right now. I am already held.