When Grief and Joy Collide: Holding Both in the Same Heart
Grief and Joy: When Both Exist Together
The first time I saw my grandmother cry, I was eight years old. We had just finished celebrating my birthday, and she was in the kitchen, washing dishes with a distant look in her eyes. I asked her why she was sad, and she gave me a soft smile, wiping a tear from her cheek.
"I'm not just sad, sweetheart," she said. "I'm also happy."
I didn't understand then. How could she be both? How could tears and laughter exist in the same moment? But as I grew older, I realized that life is rarely just one thing at a time. My grandmother was grieving my grandfather—gone for years and yet, in that same moment, she was rejoicing in the gift of family, the warmth of love that still remained.
As my client shared this story with me, she was overcome with both joy and grief also, as she remembered both this moment and the absence she now felt with her grandmother passing. It was a deeply moving reminder that even as time moves forward, the echoes of love and loss remain intertwined. The very memory that brought tears also brought comfort. These are sacred tensions that remind us that grief and joy are not meant to cancel each other out, but to exist together, shaping the landscape of our hearts.
The Complexity of Love and Loss
We live in a culture that loves dichotomies: happy or sad, broken or whole, mourning or dancing. We like clear lines and easy categories. But real life doesn’t work that way. Real grief doesn’t work that way. It isn’t just sorrow. It’s love. It’s longing. It’s even laughter in the midst of tears. Grief doesn’t erase joy, and joy doesn’t cancel grief. They often walk side by side, coexisting in the same fragile heart.
I have sat with people in the depths of their sorrow, watching them tell stories about a loved one while tears streamed down their face—only to break into laughter at the memory of something beautiful and absurd. I have seen joy flicker in the eyes of a mother holding her newborn child, even as she mourns the parent who never got to meet them. I have known the ache of loss sitting at the same table as gratitude for the time that was given.
Grief and joy are not enemies. They are companions in the mystery of human experience, woven together in the fabric of love and loss. And when we allow them to exist together, something sacred happens—we begin to see the fullness of life, even in the broken places.
Grief and joy are not enemies; they are threads in the same tapestry. Even in sorrow, joy whispers that love remains, and even in joy, grief reminds us of what was precious. You don’t have to choose between them—hold both, and let them shape you.
Beyond the Darkness of Grief
Grief is often seen as an all-consuming darkness, a season of sorrow that swallows every trace of light. Joy, on the other hand, is painted as the opposite—the bright morning after a long night, a feeling that can only return once grief has faded. But what if grief and joy were never meant to be enemies? What if they could exist together, intertwining in the mystery of human experience?
The truth is, grief and joy are not mutually exclusive; they are deeply intertwined in the fabric of love. When we grieve, it is because something mattered—someone mattered. And within that very grief, joy can surface: the joy of remembering, the joy of gratitude, the joy of what was shared. Sometimes, it’s a quiet, bittersweet joy that comes through tears. Other times, it bursts forth unexpectedly in a moment of laughter or a treasured memory. The presence of joy does not diminish grief; rather, it honors it by allowing us to see beyond the loss—to cherish what was, even as we mourn what is no longer.
Grief is Love with No Place to Go
At its core, grief is love. Love that had a home, a relationship, a future—and now aches in its absence. But love doesn’t disappear when loss comes. It shifts. It takes on new forms. It aches and yearns, but it also remembers, celebrates, and honors. The very depth of grief speaks to the depth of love that was shared.
Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of Lazarus (John 11:35). He knew He was about to raise His friend from the dead, yet He still entered into grief. Why? Because sorrow and love are deeply connected. Because loss is real, and even when hope exists, pain still needs to be acknowledged.
When we grieve, we are loving. When we mourn, we are remembering. And in that remembering, joy can also be found. The joy of having loved. The joy of knowing what was precious. The joy of gratitude for what once was, even in the ache of what is no longer.
Joy is Not the Absence of Pain
Somewhere along the way, we learned that joy meant the absence of pain. That in order to experience true joy, suffering had to be gone. But that’s not biblical joy. That’s not the joy God calls us to.
The joy Scripture speaks of is not rooted in perfect circumstances but in presence—the presence of God, the presence of hope, the presence of something greater than suffering. It’s not dependent on what we see, feel, or experience at the moment. It’s deeper. Truer. More lasting. It is the kind of joy that steadies a heart in the storm, that gives light even in the darkest night.
James 1:2-3 says, “My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.” This is a radical statement because joy in trials doesn’t make sense from a human perspective. Trials are painful. They shake us. They press against every place of comfort. But James tells us that within the testing, within the hardship, something is being formed. Strength is being developed. Faith is growing. And in that, we can find joy—not in the trial itself, but in the God who sustains us through it.
What Joy is Not
Joy is not pretending everything is fine. It’s not pasting on a smile while your heart is breaking. It’s not forcing yourself to feel happy when grief is pressing in.
Joy is the quiet strength that says, “Even here, in this place of sorrow, God is with me.”
It’s the profound peace that whispers, “I am held, even as I let go.”
It’s the deep assurance that pain does not have the final word, that there is something beyond the suffering, something beyond the loss.
Joy is not the absence of pain but the presence of love, friendship, and hope. Even in the hardest seasons, we can find joy in the ones who walk beside us, in laughter that breaks through the heaviness, and in the quiet strength of knowing we are not alone.
Joy can be found in the smallest things—a memory that brings a smile through the tears, a sunrise that reminds you of new mercies, a hug from a friend who sits with you in the silence. It can be in the way a song stirs something in your spirit, in the way laughter bubbles up unexpectedly, in the way the presence of a loved one still lingers in the beauty they left behind.
Joy and grief can exist in the same breath. One does not erase the other. Rather, they hold hands, each giving the other deeper meaning. Grief reminds us of what we’ve lost, and joy reminds us of what still remains. Together, they teach us that love is never wasted, that nothing truly good is ever gone, and that even in sorrow, there is still life to be lived.
Jesus Showed Us How to Hold Both
Jesus was intimately acquainted with sorrow. He was the Man of Sorrows, well-acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3). He knew the weight of loss, the ache of betrayal, the sting of rejection. And yet, He also embodied perfect joy—the kind that isn’t dependent on circumstances but is deeply rooted in truth, in love, in the Father.
On the night before His crucifixion, Jesus grieved deeply. He sweat drops of blood in agony (Luke 22:44). He cried out to the Father, asking if there was another way. The sorrow He carried was crushing. He felt the pain of separation, the anguish of the suffering ahead. Yet, Hebrews 12:2 tells us, “For the joy that was set before Him, He endured the cross.”
Grief and Joy, Side by Side
The cross was the greatest collision of suffering and joy the world has ever known. Jesus bore the weight of all sin and sorrow, yet in that very suffering, salvation was born. The agony of Good Friday led to the triumph of Resurrection Sunday. The suffering He endured was not absent of joy—it was infused with it. The joy of redemption. The joy of restored relationship. The joy of knowing that His sacrifice would bring many sons and daughters into the Kingdom.
This is our invitation—to grieve with hope, to mourn with joy, to weep with faith. Jesus showed us how. He didn’t deny His pain, and He didn’t suppress His sorrow. He embraced it, carried it, and allowed it to fulfill its purpose. And in doing so, He demonstrated that grief and joy are not in opposition. They are woven together in the redemptive story of love.
If you are holding grief in one hand and joy in the other, you are not alone. Jesus holds both with you. He meets you in your sorrow, and He invites you to glimpse the joy that is still present. It may not always feel like enough. The grief may still be heavy. But He is here. And He is enough.
Giving Ourselves Permission to Feel Both
If you are grieving, know this: It’s okay to laugh. It’s okay to enjoy a moment of beauty. It doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten. It doesn’t mean your pain isn’t real. It doesn’t mean you are betraying the depth of your sorrow.
And if you are experiencing joy, it’s okay to still feel the weight of what you’ve lost. It doesn’t mean your faith is weak. It doesn’t mean you haven’t healed enough. Healing is not measured by how quickly sorrow disappears, but by how well you allow yourself to live in both the mourning and the dancing.
Grief is a journey, not a destination. There is no timetable, no correct sequence of emotions. Some days, joy will feel like a distant memory. Other days, it will catch you by surprise—like the warmth of the sun on your face after a long winter. But both are sacred. Both are part of the process.
The presence of grief doesn’t mean the absence of joy. And the presence of joy doesn’t mean the absence of grief. They are threads in the same tapestry, woven together by a God who understands both deeply.
Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us that there is “a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” And sometimes, those times overlap. And that is okay.
Joy and grief are not measured by time, but by love.
Where to Go from Here
Allow yourself to feel without guilt. God created emotions, and none of them are wrong. Grieve fully. Laugh fully. Both are part of healing.
Recognize that joy is not betrayal. You do not dishonor your loss by experiencing moments of joy. In fact, joy can be one of the ways love continues.
Invite God into both. Let Him meet you in the sorrow. Let Him remind you that joy is still possible, even here.
Honor what was by living fully in what is. The best way to carry love forward is to keep living. Not just surviving, but fully living.
A Prayer for Those in the Tension of Both
Father, I come to You carrying both grief and joy, sorrow and hope. Thank You for being the God who sees every tear and holds every broken piece of my heart. Help me to know that it’s okay to feel deeply, to mourn, and to rejoice. Remind me that joy does not erase grief, and grief does not mean the absence of Your goodness. Walk with me in this season. Help me to find beauty in the in-between, to trust that I am never alone, and to know that love remains, even in loss.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
You Are Not Alone
If you are in a season of grief, know that you are not meant to walk through it alone. Reach out. Allow yourself to be supported. And remember, grief and joy are not enemies—they are companions in this journey of love and loss.
There is hope. There is healing. And even here, joy remains.
With love and grace,
Cyndi
