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There is a kind of safety that doesn’t come with locked doors or security systems. It comes with truth. With presence. With being surrounded by people who have nothing to prove and no desire to perform.
That’s what I found in the small group I attend at church—ten souls, mostly men in their 60s and 70s, gathered not for performance, but for survival. We meet each week to work through Scripture and the wounds we carry.
The class is called Renew, and though we are technically studying how to rewire our thinking to match the Word of God, what we’re really doing is learning how to be honest in a world that rewards pretending.
And after everything I’ve lost, that kind of honesty feels like salvation.
🕊 When Grief Makes Pretending Impossible
Grief stripped me bare. Not just emotionally—but socially, spiritually, even neurologically. After my husband died suddenly, the energy I once spent “keeping it together” simply vanished. I could no longer pretend I was fine. I could no longer tolerate conversations that skimmed the surface. I wanted real, or I wanted silence.
That’s why this group matters so deeply.
There’s no posturing in the circle. No Sunday-school platitudes. These are men who’ve lost wives, fought depression, faced addiction, and questioned whether God was still listening. No one talks like they’ve mastered the curriculum of life. They talk like survivors—and that, somehow, gives me permission to do the same.
🤝 Faith in a Place That Doesn’t Flinch
When someone in the group says, “This has been a really hard week,” no one tries to fix it.
When someone else says, “I’m angry. Not all the time. But more than I want to admit,” no one reaches for a verse to slap on the wound.
We listen. We nod. Sometimes we cry. Because we know what it’s like to be furious and faithful in the same breath. We know what it’s like to hang onto the hem of Jesus’ robe while wondering if He’s really going to turn around.
This is what spiritual honesty looks like:
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Not needing to impress anyone.
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Not pretending grief is gone.
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Not hiding the questions behind a polished smile.
And for me, that’s the first place I’ve felt truly safe in a long time.
📖 When the Bible Meets Our Broken Places
Each week, we return to Scripture—not as something we’re trying to conquer, but as something that keeps us alive. When we read verses about God being close to the brokenhearted, it doesn’t feel theoretical. It feels desperate. Necessary. Like oxygen.
We’ve talked about loneliness, anger, depression and other difficult emotions. We’re now in a book called Rewired by R.B. Ouellette that challenges us to notice our thinking patterns and compare them with the truth of Scripture.
But here’s the miracle: no one uses the Bible as a weapon in this group.
It’s not a rulebook. It’s not a checklist. It’s a lifeline. It’s a reminder that our pain isn’t too much for God, and neither is our doubt.
🛐 What the Church Should Be
For years, I thought the church was a place you came to prove you were getting better.
Now, I believe it should be the place where it’s finally safe to say you’re not.
This group—ten people sitting in metal chairs around a worn-out table—has become more church to me than a thousand sermons ever could. There are no polished answers. No curated responses. Just raw, trembling honesty met with grace.
And isn’t that what Jesus always offered?
🌱 Final Reflection: When Safety Feels Like Presence
The kind of safety that heals us doesn’t come from knowing all the right answers. It comes from being known—in our sorrow, in our mess, in our reaching.
In the Renew group, I’m learning that spiritual safety is found not in strength, but in shared weakness.
No one pretends. No one needs to.
And in that kind of soil, grief isn’t something to hide. It’s something God tends to—gently, honestly, and with unflinching love.
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