When Grief Becomes a Ministry: Holding Hope Together

There are moments in life when pain seems too heavy to carry, when loss knocks the breath out of your chest, and the path ahead feels too dark to navigate. For Ruth and me, that moment came on Easter Sunday, 1997, when our son, Timothy, died suddenly from an asthma attack in Kenya. He had just turned 16. And in one night, our world collapsed.

But we’re not the only ones who’ve walked this road.

We sat down with Tim and Aileen Challies, a remarkable couple from Canada, to talk about grief, loss, and the God who walks with us through both. Tim is a blogger, author, and speaker who has written widely about Christian life and theology. Together with Aileen, they’ve walked through a grief no parent ever expects—losing their only son, Nick, in 2020.

This conversation was hard. And it was holy.

Two Sons, One Heaven

Tim and Aileen’s son, Nick, was a seminary student at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. A bright, kind-hearted young man, deeply in love with Jesus and recently engaged. On a regular evening with friends, he collapsed unexpectedly and passed into eternity. No warning. No chance to say goodbye.

Our son Timothy died while I was driving him to the hospital in Nairobi. He had been battling asthma, and when the rainy season hit, the mold in the air overwhelmed his lungs. I tried CPR. The doctors tried everything. But he didn’t make it.

Two sons. Two sudden losses. Two families now holding on to hope with trembling hands.

What the Church Got Right (and Where It Hurt)

In times of deep sorrow, the Church has a powerful role to play. We saw it firsthand.

After Timothy’s death, our Kenyan church sang us to sleep in our living room every night. They showed up, night after night, without fail. The global church rallied too—thousands of sympathy cards, emails, phone calls, and casseroles (so many casseroles!). Our colleagues, neighbors, even the Muslim chief I worked with in Somalia—he walked for five days just to stand with us at our son’s funeral.

For the Challies family, it was different. Their grief came in the midst of COVID lockdowns, with borders closed and funerals restricted. People did what they could—dropping off signs, sending texts, walking with them outside—but the loneliness was compounded by distance. Their church longed to be there, but restrictions made it nearly impossible.

Tim said something that stuck with me: “Our culture doesn’t know how to grieve anymore.”

I think he’s right.

What Do We Do With Our Pain?

One of the most powerful parts of our conversation was talking about how grief changes you—and how it can be used.

Tim put it beautifully: “If you process grief as a Christian, after a year or two, you realize God has done something in you. You’re a better Christian than you were before.”

It’s not that the pain disappears. We’d both take our sons back in a heartbeat. But God, in His mercy, uses grief to deepen us. To make us more tender, more dependent on Him, and more connected to eternity.

Ruth said something so simple and true: “I didn’t want to waste my experience.” So she started writing cards. She still sends them—on anniversaries, birthdays, and random Tuesdays—just to remind grieving families that they are not alone.

Letting Go Again and Again

There was one question we asked to the mothers, Aileen and Ruth: “Did this experience teach you to hold your children more loosely before God?”

Ruth’s answer was raw: “Right after Tim’s death, I didn’t want to let the other two out of my sight. But God reminded me that I gave them to Him when they were born. They’re not mine. They never were.”

Aileen echoed that tension. She admitted it’s still a daily struggle to let go. To trust that God, who called Nick home so suddenly, still holds her daughters just as tightly.

That’s what grief does. It teaches you to hold everything a little more open-handed. But it’s not easy. It never will be.

How the Church Can Do Better

If you’re reading this as a pastor, a church member, or simply someone who wants to love well, please hear this:

• Show up. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. Don’t just say, “Let me know if you need anything.” Be there. Even if you say nothing.
• Remember the anniversaries. A simple note on the one-year mark means the world. It says, “Your grief matters. Your child is not forgotten.”
• Say their name. Don’t be afraid to talk about the child, the loss, the pain. Tim said it well: “You won’t make us sad by mentioning Nick. We’re already sad. But you might bring us joy by reminding us he mattered.”
• Create space for different grief journeys. Some grieve loudly, others quietly. Some want to talk, others want to be alone. Give grace for every expression.

A Word to the Grieving

If you're reading this while walking through your own valley of sorrow, please let me tell you:

• You are not alone.
• Your pain is not wasted.
• Your God is not absent.

He weeps with you. He knows what it is to lose a son. He’s closer than you feel.

And one day—when faith becomes sight—you’ll see just how good He’s been all along.

Until then, we grieve. And we hope.

Together.

To hear the full conversation with Tim and Aileen Challies, visit the Witness and Persecution Podcast or read more about their journey in the book Seasons of Sorrow at Challies.com.

For resources, training, and encouragement on how to follow Jesus in hard places, visit us at nickripken.com.