My Spirit Is Tired: A Reflection on Grief and Spiritual Fatigue

A best friend, aunt, and sister.

A grandson and nephew.

A mother, elder, and matriarch.

A wife and mother to three girls.

A son, brother, and friend.

A dear teacher and colleague.

A close friend and high school classmate.

A grandmother and mother.

An aunt, sister, and mother.

A wife and mother to two sons.

A grandmother and great-grandmother to many and mother to five.

A dear and loved church member and Sabbath School teacher.

A beloved mother of mine. A beloved wife, beloved sister, and beloved daughter.

Many more in between, too many to count, but too many to endure. Listed in reverse chronological order, each name represents a memory, a loss, a wound that hasn’t fully healed. Whether it was a family member, someone dear to me, or dear to a loved one, it’s been too much to bear.

A woman sitting outside a church

Sitting Outside Another Funeral

I sat outside my friend’s aunt’s funeral, and my spirit was grieved. I felt sorrow not just for my friend, but for myself and my own psychological health. The last funeral I attended left me discouraged. Little did I know I would soon attend two more.

The very concept of a funeral was becoming mundane. It felt like another long, drawn-out version of a church service. It’s supposed to be a celebration of life, yet it feels morbid. Yes, there is occasional laughter as people share beautiful memories, but even that laughter carries the weight of loss.

Who Is the Service For?

Who is the service really for? Is it for the family, for closure, for comfort? Some show up because they’ve been away or indifferent, whether their loved ones are dead or alive. Others come to talk, to catch up, to be seen. Some don’t even want to be there.

And then there are the familiar phrases:

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“If they were here…”

The list goes on. Why must we be reminded, over and over, every time someone speaks? For some, a funeral service brings healing. For others, it’s deeply traumatic. It forces you to relive the pain from just days ago, to remember how your loved one died, to see them lying still in a casket. That image becomes the last lingering memory you must now fight to replace with how they were — full of color, laughter, and life.

So why can’t we do that instead? Why can’t we celebrate their life without reliving their death? Why not remember them in their prime? Imagine them still with us, just away on a long trip, until the day we meet again.

I know it’s easier said than done. But the human mind and heart can only take so much.

The Weight of Too Many Goodbyes

Today, we are losing more and more people. How can we endure it all? How do the pastors do it, standing before the grieving, week after week, preaching hope to people whose hearts are breaking?

How many ways can one speak of heaven, resurrection, and joy in the morning before the words start to ache? We were told these dark days would come, that loss would surround us. But how do we hold on when we’re forced to mourn three, four, or even five times in a single season?

When Hope Sounds Like Sadness

I sat outside the church with my phone in my hand and started to write this. I could hear the pastor speaking, the church singing. A song meant to bring hope was now soaked in sorrow.

How can I keep coming back to church and sing the same songs if they’re tainted by memories of funerals? How can we expect people to keep praising a God who gives life yet allows death, even when we know death is the result of sin and disobedience?

For those who are spiritually weary, funerals can become the very thing that drives them further from God.

Spiritual Fatigue: No More Funerals

No more funerals. At least not for now. I’m choosing to live. To keep breathing, laughing, and finding joy before grief drains it all away.

It’s not that I don’t care when someone loses a loved one; I do. But I no longer have the capacity to comfort others when I can barely comfort myself. It’s not about being heartless; it’s about protecting what’s left of my peace.

Do I allow myself to mourn every death, to feel every loss? Or do I guard my heart and keep my hope alive, knowing joy will come in the morning even when the nights feel endless?

I know who my God is. I know why we suffer the things of this world. But if I allow myself to continuously grieve, I fear I’ll lose my spirit and, with it, my faith.

I can’t take it anymore. I don’t want the songs I love to be tainted by sadness. I want to sing unto God with joy and laughter again. I want to keep believing that hope still exists even in these gloomy days ahead. Because even though my spirit is tired, I’m still reaching for light.

Until Then

After I finished writing, one song quietly came to mind — one that has always found me in moments like this: “Until Then.”

My heart can sing when I pause to remember,

A heartache here is but a stepping stone,

Along a trail that’s winding always upward,

This troubled world is not my final home.

But until then, my heart will go on singing,

Until then, with joy I’ll carry on,

Until the day my eyes behold the city,

Until the day God calls me home.

Maybe that’s the reminder I needed. Even when my spirit is tired, my song doesn’t have to stop — it can simply soften until heaven restores my strength.

🎵 *Listen to “Until Then” — a hymn that found me as I wrote these words. On Spotify