Why is grief so weird? Why is it so surprising? There are times in life when I have been prepared for the tears. I’ve sat at the bedside of a grandparent, knowing the end is near. I’ve walked into the funeral home anticipating the open casket and that time-stands-still moment of walking slowly past to pay my respects. Grief seems normal when the yellow-lit room is filled with people who are remembering and mourning, milling about and whispering in hushed tones as the scent of fresh floral arrangements lingers.

But what about the times when the source of grief is surprising? When I feel inexplicably gutted by grief over the death of someone I never met and with whom I have no actual connection.

I have felt this confusion and weirdness more times than I can count in the days since Rachel Held Evans died in early May. I never met Rachel. I read only a handful of her blog posts over the years. Her book Searching for Sunday helped me name and process much of my experience with church as well as form my philosophy of pastoral and sacramental ministry. So that’s kind of a big deal…But still. Why am I so sad?

The grief strikes with an unanticipated power and without warning. Last night I was sitting on my front porch with my husband after the girls had gone to bed. We were each enjoying a peanut butter milkshake from Sonic (half price after 8, woot!) and listening the the raindrops while Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix was read to us by Jim Dale. I was relaxed and at peace.

Out of nowhere my thoughts were flooded grief-soaked solidarity. As I thought of my 3 year old and my almost 1 year old asleep in their beds, I experienced a depth of compassion that stunned me. I began to weep as I pictured Rachel’s own 3 year old and almost 1 year old are going to sleep in their beds after their daddy prayed with them and kissed them goodnight, knowing their momma isn’t there too. My throat caught. My eyes brimmed. I gathered my breath so as to not “lose it” all over again. But I couldn’t help it. How can this be? How could those two sweet kids be left without their mother? How did Rachel not wake up? How is her husband going to carry on without her? The tears fell and Kevin stopped the audio book.

“I don’t know why I’m so sad,” I said. “I don’t know why I can’t get over this. I didn’t even know her.”

“Why do you have to get over it?” Kevin asked.

Why do I feel so weird about my grief? Why do I feel a bit over-dramatic about feeling such compassion for the three people mourning their most beloved partner and momma tonight? Why I do feel self-conscious about admitting that I feel undeniable loss at the death of a woman who represents much that I aspire to be?

As I’ve bobbed along in the wake of Rachel’s death, I am finding my own courage to write once again. As I sob uncontrollable tears watching bits and pieces of her funeral and seeing the pews overflowing with people who loved her and were deeply formed by Rachel’s life and words, I am looking at my own life and seeing the responsibility I have to do the same. And so I am going to begin again. I am taking my cues from the life and work of Rachel, seeking to write beautifully, to write truthfully, to write bravely so that all who know me and whoever will read my words may know the love and welcome of Jesus.

Rachel had a huge platform and she used it so well. She wrote beautifully and she wrote truthfully and she wrote bravely.

Two weeks ago I did a thing. I joined hope*writers. I’ve been saying to myself for years, “I want to publish a book by 40,” but I’d never said it out loud to anyone except my husband. The past few months my spirit sat up straight whenever I heard the word, “Writer.” I needed to move forward. It’s time to be the writer I know I am.

Thank you, Rachel. Your courage and resilience are inspiring me to do the same. Here’s to you. Here’s to your babies and to mine.