The Slow Grief
There are losses that come all at once, and then there are losses that arrive by inches. ALS1 has introduced me to the second kind. It’s a long surrender, a daily education in weakness, and a slow confrontation with how little control I’ve actually had in my life. Things I once did without thought now require the most extreme efforts, help, and/or patience, and in many cases, grieving over the loss of what was. Some days the changes feel small enough to ignore. Other days they feel impossible to escape. And some days, I’m overwhelmed as Ihold a series of funerals in my mind to say goodbye to small parts of my life that I’ve always taken for granted.
One of the hardest parts of suffering is not only what it takes from the body, but also those little pieces of your soul that seemingly get chipped away one loss at a time until you feel small, weak, and mutilated. Illness can make a man ask quiet questions: “Who am I when I can’t do what I used to do?” “Am I really a man if I can no longer protect or provide?” “What remains when strength and independence begin to slip away?” In those moments, I’m tempted to measure my life by what I’ve lost. But God keeps teaching me that my deepest identity was never built on physical strength. It was built on His love, His presence, and His unchanging truth.
Struggle, Faith, and Honesty
Scripture doesn’t pretend that weakness is easy. The Bible is full of people who feared, lamented, and cried out to God from places of pain. We can look to examples like Hagar, David, Jeremiah, or even Jesus Himself. That honesty matters to me. It reminds me that faith isn’t pretending everything is fine. Faith is bringing what’s true into the presence of God. It’s saying, “This hurts, I’m afraid, and I don’t understand,” while still holding fast to Him. It’s choosing to believe that He remains good, near, and faithful.
That’¥s the heartbeat behind this blog. My condition may change. My abilities may narrow. And my future on earth may look different than I had hoped or planned. But God does not fade. His character does not weaken. His promises do not expire. And His mercy is not fragile. When everything visible feels uncertain, He is still the Rock beneath my feet.
Why I’m Writing
I’m not writing because I’ve mastered suffering. I’m writing because I’m in it, and I need the truth of God here as much as anyone else does. My desire is for this to be a place where weakness isn’t hidden, where sorrow isn’t cleaned up for appearance, and where hope isn’t reduced to easy phrases. Real hope has to be rooted in Someone stronger than I am. That’s the only way hope can truly be sturdy enough to live through hard times.
So, this first post is simply an opening confession and an invitation. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I know I don’t walk alone. If you are reading this from your own place of weakness, grief, or fear, I hope you’ll stay. We’ll bring our questions to Scripture, our sorrow to God, and our fading strength to the One who remains forever.
Final Question: What brings you here today? Say “Hello” in the comments and tell me a bit of your story. I’d love to hear from you.
“The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.” 2 Corinthians 13:14 BSB
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Footnotes:
1: Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), often called Lou Gehrig’s disease, is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that attacks motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord. These nerve cells control voluntary muscle movement. As they die, the brain can no longer communicate with the muscles, leading to muscle weakness, atrophy, and eventually paralysis. Though ALS typically spares cognitive functions (thinking, reasoning) and sensory functions (sight, hearing, touch) patients lose the ability to walk, speak, eat, and eventually breathe.
(AI response to question, What is ALS? taken from websites for The ALS Association – als.org, Hospital for Special Surgery – hss.edu, and University of Utah Health – healthcare.utah.edu.)
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