Part 3 of 4: Naming Grief, Reclaiming Practices, and Seeking Rootedness Again
By the time we reach any kind of return, something has already died.
If you’ve read the last two entries in this series, you know the story. I walked through a long, quiet unraveling. First came the gentle undoing—the slow loosening of structures, roles, and rhythms I had built my life around. Then came the fog—the deconstruction and disorientation that stripped away what I thought I knew about God, myself, and the faith I had long called home.
This isn’t the story of “coming back” as much as it is the story of becoming rooted in a new way. Not rooted in certainty, but in presence. Not in answers, but in attentiveness.
This is the part of the story where grief becomes named. Where practices reemerge—not as duties, but as invitations. Where the ache doesn’t disappear, but it begins to soften under the weight of grace.
Naming the Grief
I didn’t know how much I had lost until I stopped trying to fix it.
I had lost language, belonging, old frameworks, my sense of spiritual safety. And I had also lost my place as a woman in environments that couldn’t see me beyond the roles I was assigned. The grief was layered: theological, emotional, embodied.
But for a long time, I didn’t know how to name it. Lament had never been modeled much for me. It was often skipped over in church life—too heavy, too uncomfortable, too unproductive. And yet, it’s everywhere in Scripture. David’s psalms, Job’s cries, even Jesus weeping in the garden—they all gave voice to pain, not as weakness, but as worship.
With the help of my confessional community and my Christ-centered counselor, I began to dig beneath the surface. We revisited old stories—wounds I had minimized or spiritualized away. We called them what they were. We asked where God had been in the pain, and where I had been protecting myself instead of letting Him heal me.
Grief doesn’t just need to be felt—it needs to be named. It wasn’t just that I missed church or missed what used to be. I was mourning the death of a version of faith that had become too small to hold the largeness of God.
Gently Reclaiming Practices
Eventually, something softened. Not all at once, and not always noticeably.
I began journaling again—not to perform, but to notice. I used the Self Care Cycle to trace what I was actually feeling and where God might be in it. I practiced Lectio Divina and found that when I slowed down enough to listen, the Word became less of a textbook and more of a doorway.
I stopped trying to manufacture spiritual momentum. Instead, I returned to the basics: lighting a candle, reading a Psalm out loud, walking in silence. I began observing Sabbath again by turning off my phone for 24 hours and being with the people I love. It didn’t always feel “productive,” but it felt like healing.
Some of the most restorative practices were quiet and communal. Weekly communion reminded me of my dependence on grace—not as a ritual of perfection, but as a simple and sacred remembering. Reading Scripture aloud with other believers helped the Word echo in my ears and not just in my thoughts. Praying familiar words in unison—whether through shared Psalms, scripture-based prayers, or reflective moments—reminded me that I wasn’t carrying the faith alone. And following the rhythm of biblically grounded liturgy allowed me to borrow the language of the faithful when my own voice felt uncertain or tired.
There’s no formula to faith. But there are ancient practices—time-tested rhythms God’s people have engaged in for centuries—that help us stay rooted. These aren’t programs or productivity tools. They aren’t meant to be mastered or customized. They are invitations to let God shape us slowly, communally, and deeply. In a world that urges us to individualize and optimize everything, these practices ask us to simply abide.
Receiving from New Voices
In this part of the journey, I allowed voices outside my denominational silo to speak into my formation. Tim Keller helped me see how the gospel reorders our emotions. Rich Villodas reminded me of the power of embodiment. Scot McKnight reoriented me to the Kingdom. Kaitlyn Schiess (Curiously Kaitlyn) gave me language to reexamine biblical womanhood without discarding Scripture.
We can easily find ourselves in echo chambers, surrounded only by voices that affirm what we already believe. And while discernment is crucial—we must weigh what we read and hear against the Word and in the context of godly community—we cannot be ruled by fear. Especially not fear of questions.
We do great harm when we disciple people, especially new believers, to fear inquiry. God is not threatened by our wondering. In fact, He welcomes it. But questions need a safe place to land—a place where they are not dismissed with platitudes or punished with shame. We must create communities where people are invited to ask, “Is this true?” without being expected to land on perfect certainty.
Because here’s the thing: you’re not the first person who’s asked that question. And you won’t be the last. Let’s teach people not just to repeat the “right” answer, but to walk with wisdom. To sit with the tension. To follow Jesus not because all their questions have been resolved, but because they’ve learned how to bring those questions with them, honestly and faithfully.
I no longer saw questions as threats to my faith. I started asking, “What else might be true?” instead of, “What’s the right answer?” I learned to filter theology not through fear, but through the lens of love and Scripture held in community.
Reimagining Identity
As I released performance culture and reclaimed presence, I began to see how much of my spiritual life had been built around doing rather than being. That showed up not only in how I approached God, but also in how I saw myself—especially as a woman.
And if I’m honest, it showed up long before I could name it. For much of my life, I worked hard to be okay. To be strong. To be useful. I was praised for what I could carry, not always for who I was becoming. There were wounds that taught me early on that my value was linked to how well I performed, how little I needed, how much I could fix for others. When I began to reimagine identity, I had to revisit those early lessons. I had to ask what I believed about myself beneath the theology, beneath the roles, beneath even my spiritual gifts.
I revisited the complementarian framework I had once accepted without question. I read. I wrestled. I studied Scripture again with fresh eyes, asking not, “What does tradition say about me?” but “What does Jesus say?”
And what I found was that identity—true, rooted identity—is not something I have to earn or explain. It’s something received. Something named by the One who made me. I began to walk more boldly in the gifts God had given me—not to prove anything, but because He had placed them in me for a reason.
Moving Toward Rootedness
Rootedness, for me, no longer means clarity. It means honesty. It means reading Scripture out loud in my confessional community and letting the Word speak without the need for a takeaway. It means noticing beauty—sunsets, music, poetry—and allowing longing to rise instead of shutting it down.
It means tending to the wounds of my heart and mind the way I’d tend to a wound on my leg—with gentleness and care. And not just privately, but openly, vulnerably—without fear that healing somehow undermines holiness.
I’ve experienced settings where emotional pain was quickly bypassed with a Bible verse, where deep listening was seen as distraction, and therapy was treated as a dilution of faith. I understand the caution—Western culture often leans into over-therapizing. But that concern usually points to a deeper issue: we aren’t being equipped to bring our pain to God in a way that forms us. And when the Church doesn't teach it, we outsource it. Then we get frustrated with the results.
But Psalm 139 reminds us that God searches us and knows us. He isn’t threatened by what He finds—He delights to draw near. The same God who knit us together invites us to be known not just by Him, but within a safe community. And when we tend to our inner wounds with that same attentiveness, it doesn’t stay contained. Healing always spills outward. Wholeness in us becomes invitation to wholeness in others.
That’s the kind of restoration I’m after. Not just for myself, but for the communities I’m called to love.
✨ Reflect: A Gentle Invitation
Below are some prompts—gently offered. No pressure to answer them all. Maybe one lingers. Maybe one brings tears. That’s enough.
What practices feel like invitations, not obligations, in your life right now?
Where might God be gently rebuilding trust in you?
Is there a grief you haven’t fully named?
What feels newly sacred—even if it's small?
Are there voices outside your tradition that have helped you see God more clearly?
What beauty are you drawn to right now—and what might it be teaching you?
What assumptions have you begun to gently question?
How has your understanding of your identity—especially your gender or gifting—shifted in light of Scripture and community?
Where have you noticed performance culture in your faith story—and what might it look like to let that go?
How do you tend to the wounds of your heart and mind—and how might God be inviting you to pay attention to them in new ways?
In the next and final post in this series, we’ll explore what it means to live from this re-rooted place. To behold Christ—not just believe in Him—and to co-create with God rather than strive for Him. We'll talk about spiritual imagination, restoration over performance, and the kind of discipleship that flows from communion, not control.
I hope you’ll meet me there.