Thursday Th(ink)s - December 4, 2025

Down the Grief Labyrinth

Our humanity is marked by the finiteness of our days; our souls are marked by the

infinite depth of both love and grief. To be human is to suffer, and that suffering is not

narcissism, it is simply part of the journey between the already of Christ’s first coming and the

not yet of his return.

Grief has its own labyrinth, winding and solitary. A maze is meant to trick you; a

labyrinth is meant to form you. You can’t get lost in a labyrinth; you can only go deeper. You

can’t skip a turn, jump ahead, or go backward. The only way is forward, even when the curve

bends you away from where you thought you should be. Grief honors reality: no escape hatches,

no detours, no pretending. Just steady, faithful steps.

I never knew how deep the grief labyrinth could be until I stumbled into it at age 29,

when our son, Levi Nielsen Bennett, was stillborn. Yesterday was his birthday. Levi never took a

breath in this sad world, but his life, nine full months in my womb, changed me irrevocably.

Like the Velveteen Rabbit, I became real through the fusion of love and loss. Grief

cracked me open, and in that dark hollow space, I did not discover the answer to why, but I

discovered Who. Christ Himself became my anchor, my sustainer, my All in All. I learned that

grief and love are not opposites but companions, each shaping the other, each calling, deep to

deep, into the real world of being human. Like Job said, "I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you" (Job 42:5 ESV).

Now, decades later, aging has added layers to that grief. The sharp edges have softened,

but the depth remains. Love, loss, and life are braided together. With each year, I understand

more clearly that the scars we carry are signs that we’ve been made in the image of God with a

soul capable of infinite love. These are the holy places where Christ has met us and continues to

meet us. I step into my memories, reverent and silent, aware that my humanity was once

frightfully fragile, that it battled despair and nearly didn’t survive.

I honor the woman who chose to take the hand offered to her, and I tell her, “You are

whole now only because you went into the labyrinth, down, down, down, letting God take the

lead.”

Levi’s brief life points me, still, to the eternal. His name is written on a gravestone in the

Alberta prairies, on my memory, and in the Book of Life. He is held safe under the wings of

Christ, a safer place, even, than with me, his mother. And I am reminded that every tear, every

ache, every pang of sorrow has meaning because it drives me closer to the One who has already

borne them all.

Even decades later, I can feel both the ache and the grace, sometimes in the same

heartbeat. I still do not ask why because Who has sustained me through a lifetime of both grief

and joy. And that is only because the labyrinth was deep, oh so deep.

Big Brains: “But once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.” Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

Old Souls: “The pain I feel now is part of the happiness I had before. That’s the deal.” C.S. Lewis

The Ancient of Days: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18 (ESV)

Norma Jean:
Grief turns idealism into theology.

Thursday Chat: Tears have no expiry date. Lift your face to the heavens and weep with the one who gave you tears. He’s saving them. Every single drop that has fallen from your full heart has been lovingly deposited into the wounds of Christ’s hands. There, they are redeemed.