“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” Psalm 56:8 (ESV)
Have you ever had to abandon a grocery cart in the middle of Target? I have. In the first raw weeks after losing my son River, ordinary places felt comforting and unbearable at once. I’d walk the aisles pretending I was OK, but seeing his favorite snack or a little boy with red hair and brown eyes would wreck me. I’d leave my cart and walk out.
I tried so hard to be “normal” again, but life wasn’t normal. Grief interrupts plans, rearranges days, and lingers in every corner. It doesn’t fit in a box or follow a timeline. It’s messy and unpredictable. Eventually I had to learn that really hard things take time and that healing doesn’t come from trying to return to what was but from seeking God in what is.
After our son passed, our world shattered. My other kiddos were hurting, too, and the pressure to be the “good mom” in the middle of my own grief was the hardest role ever. I missed our old life, the noise, the mess, the happiness. I missed River’s cars lined up on the floor, his silly little voice, the morning snuggles with chocolate milk, and his wild bedhead hair sticking up in every direction.
Grief never moved in linear stages for me. It zigzagged through guilt, anger, and sadness, catching me off guard in the most inopportune moments. I didn’t have words for what I was feeling. I was just a mom with swollen eyes trying to make it to the end of the aisle or the end of the day.
Looking back, I can now see a truth I couldn’t see before: None of those tears was wasted.
God’s Word promises that He has “kept count of my tossings; put my tears in [His] bottle” (Psalm 56:8a).
Every tear mattered. What comfort it gave me to be seen and remembered by the God who keeps count of our tossings. What felt shattered beyond repair was already being gathered by the One who heals the brokenhearted.
I tried so hard to feel like myself again, to show up and be present. But the memories — the trauma loop — would often assault my thoughts, and my heartache seemed louder in the midst of others’ joy.
If you’re in a place where just getting out of bed feels like a victory, take heart. You’re doing it, and you have permission to go at your own pace. Give yourself the same patience and grace God extends to you.
Healing isn’t a race to the finish; it’s a gentle becoming as we are held by the hands of a faithful God until every tear is finally wiped away.
Heavenly Father, thank You for holding all of my tears. When sorrow feels heavier than I can bear, help me remember that You see me, You care about what I’m walking through, and You never rush my healing. Give me patience with myself as I grieve. Thank You for never letting go, even in the silence. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.
For a raw and honest story about grief that reminds you that you’re not alone, grab a copy of Amber Emily Smith’s book, The Girl on the Bathroom Floor: Held Together When Everything Is Falling Apart.
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Revelation 21:4, “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (ESV).
How do Psalm 56:8 and Revelation 21:4 change your view of God, reminding you that not one of your tears is forgotten by Him?
Where have you felt the weight of trying to feel normal again, and how might God be inviting you to rest instead of strive? We'd love to hear from you in the comments.
© 2026 by Amber Emily Smith. All rights reserved.
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