How do we mourn our loved ones who have died? At an unexpected moment, we feel the gasp in our throat, we lower our face; tears erupt, then sobs. We hear—even mimic—the particular way they said our name, the special inflection in their voice that communicated connection, appreciation, hostility, demand. We ponder the shelves in the grocery store, looking for a particular brand . . . the overhead speakers bring a new song, and we walk to an unoccupied aisle, overcome with sadness we want no one to see. We pass a spot with a special fragrance; it takes us to a time when our loved one walked this spot with us. We see an object that our loved one used—one that is out of place for everyone else but is dear to us, and so it stays.

When we share the loss of loved ones with others, we tell stories. We relive endearing, awkward moments. Our mourning is touched with laughter and fond memories of some small craziness. We feel appreciation for the way our loved one gave meaning to our life. We regret things not said. We relive other close calls, times we took risks and felt the exhilaration of cheating death.

Like the paradox of particular pain that arises in ordinary moments or of grief that is touched with humor, we find the mystery of faith: Forgiveness and acceptance are bundled into justification, trust in the future rests in faith, and the promise of peace and hope endures in sharing God’s glory. On these blessings, our deepest griefs are borne.