I never imagined my son’s last words would sound so ordinary.

“Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad.”

Those words echo in my head. They were Jude’s last. Early Saturday morning, I came home after running 13.1 miles to find him unresponsive in his room. Death stole his life while I was running.

Jude and I followed our nightly routine. He had just finished making his famous pineapple upside-down cake, his favorite. We shared our final conversation, saying goodnight.

Saturday, September 5, 2020. Death claimed Jude Thomas-Andrew Class.

When Storms Strike Without Warning

Who knew Jude’s pineapple upside-down cake would torment me? Grief ambushes you in the smallest moments. Cinnamon fills my nostrils. Mixing bowls clank together. Walking into the empty kitchen where laughter once bounced off walls, where cake batter splattered counters, where flour coated everything, where vegetable oil still stains the wood.

Storms rip doors from their hinges, leaving only splinters behind. They redraw your life’s map, demolish your schedules, and shatter your timeline. Survive an intense Missouri thunderstorm with tornadoes, and you wake after a sleepless night to discover your world looks familiar but feels foreign. Sometimes destruction stares you in the face. Often, water seeps in, causing damage to hidden areas. Invisible to others, but evident to ourselves, feeling damp and bitter from grief.

Have you felt that kind of displacement? Everyone else keeps living, but your world abruptly comes to a complete stop?

March 2020 trapped us behind masks. Multiple strokes attacked my mother-in-law, Bet, until she drew her final breath on May 7, 2020. We battled COVID restrictions to say goodbye. June arrived, and we cradled our dog Oreo while the veterinarian ended his suffering.

Grief piled in my chest like the rocks Jude used to collect, each heavier than the one before. COVID struck. Bet died. Oreo passed. Then Saturday arrived. My boy, who stuffed stones in his pockets, built kingdoms in Minecraft, strummed guitar until his fingers ached, and shared every secret with Vinnie, disappeared at thirteen.

Previous Storms Taught Me Nothing

Thirty years earlier, a car accident near Klamath Falls killed my brother James in 1991 while studying at the Oregon Institute of Technology. I buried every emotion, firing my anger right at God. Years crawled by before I could wrestle through that rage.

But this time? I stepped right up, facing the grief, staring it in the eyes. This time, the pain sliced so deep I wondered if the hurt would destroy me forever.

You know this feeling if sudden loss has blindsided you. Breathing becomes work. Simple choices paralyze you.

What Darkness Revealed

This crushing journey taught me something: when we dump our worries before God, grace floods in and strengthens us.

But nobody told me how it arrives. Because it shows up differently than you expect!

The Silent Companions

Who stayed with me through hell? My closest people. The ones who chose silence over speeches. They were there. Showing up. Reminding me constantly of their presence. They didn’t perform. Or preach. They didn’t say much of anything. Their presence alone filled every need.

But some people I expected to call? They never did. No casseroles appeared. No texts arrived. No one offered prayers out loud. Our church community’s silence cut differently. It wasn’t just social abandonment. It was spiritual rejection.

Where were the church leaders who had promised to sit with the grieving? Those who claimed they’d be there when the chips were down? The ones who said “reach out if you need anything” but were never heard from again? Their absence echoed louder than their promises. It felt like the body of Christ had closed its doors, not out of cruelty, but out of absence. And absence in grief is a wound all its own.

More people need to understand. Stop trying to repair those grieving. Don’t say anything and for the love of all that’s holy, stop spouting platitudes. Just show up. Sit in the wreckage with them.

What helped you most during your darkest season? Share it in the comments.

What God’s Help Actually Looks Like

Surrendering to God means experiencing pain fully while remembering He walks every step with us. He never abandons us, even when breathing becomes work. Some days, prayer felt impossible. Sitting in silence became my conversation with Him. Other days, I whispered “help” through tears. He met me there too.

Jesus experienced identical pain. When his friend Lazarus died, grief crushed him. The Gospel states simply: “Jesus wept.” He didn’t flee from hurt. He faced it head-on.

God promises: “Don’t fear, because I stay with you. I will strengthen you.”

His help shocked me. No dramatic rescue arrived, but daily sustaining power flowed. Strength lifted me from bed. Breath filled my lungs when panic squeezed my chest. Small mercies whispered His presence when loneliness overwhelmed me.

Have you experienced God’s silence? That’s not absence. That’s Him sitting in ashes with you.

The Journey Continues

When pain traps you in bed, when darkness devours you whole, remember this: Jesus plants Himself in your suffering’s center. Even when you can’t sense His presence, even when prayer feels pointless, He rescues you at your weakest moment.

Now, when I visit his tombstone, I let my grief transform. This time, it’s learning to dance with hope.

If Your Storm Rages Right Now

If your storm batters you right now, if you can’t catch your breath, lean in anyway. Feel the pain instead of numbing it. Find people who sit in silence with you. Whisper “help” when words vanish. God meets you there, especially when you don’t feel like it.

The biggest mistake I made after losing James thirty years ago? I held onto the pain. I choked back tears. I buried everything deep, thinking strength meant silence. I was wrong.

This time, I let the tears flow. I felt everything—the rage, the emptiness, the crushing weight. Most importantly, I shared those raw feelings with the people closest to me, the ones willing to sit and listen without trying to fix me.

That’s what saved me. Not holding back. Not being strong. But being broken out loud with people who could handle my mess.

Jesus knows your name. He knows the weight crushing you. When pain cuts deepest, He draws closest.

I’m Jude’s dad, a storyteller learning how to grieve honestly and still hold on to God. Every year, I run 13.1 miles in his honor at the City of Roses half-marathon in Cape Girardeau. Each step carries his memory forward.

Comment with one word describing your current season. Let’s build a community where no one walks through storms alone.

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💡 If your own storm is raging, remember:

• Feel it fully – Don’t numb the pain, let it teach you
• Find your silent companions – People who show up without fixing
• Whisper “help” when words fail – God meets you in the silence
• Choose community over isolation – You weren’t meant to walk alone

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🙏 If someone you love is grieving, send them this. Not to fix them. But to walk beside them.

Someone around you carries invisible weight today. Share this with them. Sometimes knowing we’re not alone in the storm changes everything.

If this helped you navigate your own storm, help someone else by sharing it. Grief shared becomes grief divided.