“When Peace Feels Out of Reach”
There’s a strange silence that settles into the soul when life is loud. Ever been there?
You’re doing all the right things—reading Scripture, showing up for work, smiling at church, putting one foot in front of the other—but your soul feels like it’s limping. The peace that surpasses understanding? You’d settle for a peace that just makes it through lunchtime.
In a world that thrives on constant stimulation and a culture that glorifies hustle, our internal equilibrium often takes the hardest hit. Stress becomes our soundtrack. Anxiety creeps in like background noise we’ve learned to live with. And slowly, subtly, we start to confuse survival with sanctification.
But let me remind you of something sacred: Peace is not passive. Peace is pursued.
Jesus and the Storm Within
Mark 4:39 (ESV) tells us: “And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.”
Now, Jesus didn’t just silence a weather system—He demonstrated His authority over the chaos inside the disciples. These were seasoned fishermen. What scared them wasn’t the storm itself but the sense that God was sleeping through it. Ever felt like that?
We can survive the storm if we know God is steering the boat. But when it feels like God is silent, panic sets in. And yet, here’s the heart of the gospel truth: Jesus was in the boat all along. And that means the presence of peace is never determined by the absence of problems, but by the presence of Christ.
Peace Is a Discipline, Not Just a Feeling
Too often, we treat peace like something we stumble upon—like a lucky day or a stress-free afternoon. But Scripture teaches us something different. Romans 14:19 says, “So then let us pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding.”
Pursue. Chase. Hunt it down.
That means we have a role to play in building rhythms that support peace. That includes setting boundaries, limiting toxic inputs, getting honest in prayer, attending therapy, and yes—sometimes even just turning the phone off and breathing on purpose.
Peace isn’t something that just “shows up.” It’s cultivated. It’s intentional. And it’s always worth the effort.
When God Is Silent, Keep Speaking
One of the hardest truths I’ve learned both in the therapy office and in the pastor’s study is this: silence doesn’t mean absence.
When God feels silent, it may be an invitation to lean in—not to lean away. The Psalms are full of cries that begin in chaos and end in confidence—not because the situation changed, but because the soul did.
Psalm 42:11 says, “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.”
Peace is not always immediate. But it is always promised. And that promise is rooted in the unshakable, unchanging nature of our Savior who still speaks to storms.
Practical Soul Work
If peace feels far off today, here are three ways to gently pursue it:
1. Schedule quiet – not just physical stillness, but sacred silence. Sit with Scripture. Sit with God. Sit with yourself.
2. Name your noise – What thoughts or fears keep running laps in your mind? Journaling them can help bring clarity and healing.
3. Talk it through – with a trusted friend, pastor, or therapist. Peace often enters through the door of vulnerability.
Let me leave you with this:
You may feel overwhelmed, but you are not overlooked.
You may feel broken, but you are not abandoned.
Peace is coming. And His name is Jesus.
Keep going. Keep praying. Keep breathing.
The Day We Lost QP
Grief has a way of making time stand still.
The day we lost QP—my son, my boy, my heart—was the day the air changed in my lungs. He was just 29. Full of life, jokes, wisdom beyond his years, and love that could light up the darkest corner. I remember the moment I heard the news. Everything in me collapsed—mind, body, soul. It was as if the ground beneath me gave way and I was falling into a bottomless pit.
They say grief comes in waves, but when it first hits, it’s a flood. And I was drowning.
I couldn’t breathe for days. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t pray—not at first. There were no words. Only groans. Only sobs. Only silence and sometimes screaming into my pillow when no one was around. If you’ve ever lost a child, you know there’s a grief that doesn’t just break your heart—it breaks you.
The Depth of My Grief
I’m a pastor. A therapist. A man of deep faith and training. But none of that inoculated me against the raw torment of burying my son. People sometimes think our roles shield us, but when it’s your own child, titles fall off like autumn leaves. I was not “Dr. or Pastor Brown” in that moment. I was “Daddy”—desperate, devastated, and disoriented.
There were nights I sat in the dark, staring at the wall, wondering how I was supposed to keep going. I replayed every memory, every conversation, every mistake, and every moment I wished I could have back. Guilt. Rage. Numbness. You name it—I felt it. Grief didn’t just knock on my door—it moved in and redecorated my soul.
Finding Comfort
I don’t remember who called first. Or who showed up first. But I remember the love. My family gathered around me like a fortress. My friends sat in the ashes with me, never trying to fix it—just being present. Some prayed. Some cried. Some said nothing at all. And every gesture—large or small—was a thread that kept me from completely unraveling.
Therapy wasn’t a backup plan. It was necessary. Grief counseling helped me give language to the chaos I felt inside. It gave me permission to be both father and mourner. I had to do the work, not just preach it.
Spiritual guidance anchored me in ways I didn’t even expect. My mentors didn’t toss clichés at me—they held space for my tears. They reminded me that pain doesn’t mean the absence of God. Sometimes, it’s the very place He meets us.
God’s Word in the Darkness
Above all, the Word of God became my lifeline. One Scripture in particular became the echo in my soul:
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction…”
— 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (ESV)
These verses weren’t just poetic words. They were a promise. A reality. A whisper in my spirit on days when all I could do was weep.
God reminded me that He is the God of ALL comfort. Not just some. All. That includes the unbearable loss of a child. That includes my QP. God wasn’t distant. He was near. And every time I cried, He collected my tears like precious jewels.
What hit me hardest was the second part: that we are comforted so that we may comfort others. That wrecked me. Because it meant even my pain could have purpose. Even this deep wound could one day help another grieving father hold on.
Healing Is Ongoing
Let me be clear—grief doesn’t go away. You don’t “get over” your child. That’s not how this works. What you do is carry the grief differently over time. You build life around the loss, not in spite of it. And somehow, through God’s grace, the pain and the peace learn to coexist.
I still miss QP every day. I still have moments where I break down out of nowhere. I still look at his pictures and talk to him. And I still believe that I will see him again.
But today, I also help others walk through their own valleys of the shadow of death—not as a man untouched by sorrow, but as one who knows the terrain firsthand.
Final Thoughts
If you’re reading this and you’ve lost someone—especially a child—I want you to know this: You are not alone. Your grief is valid. Your pain is real. But so is your God.
Lean into the arms of those who love you. Don’t be afraid to seek help. Don’t be ashamed to cry, to question, to feel. But also, don’t forget to let God speak into the silence. He will comfort you. And one day—maybe not today, but one day—you’ll be able to pass that comfort on to someone else.
Until then, take it one breath at a time.
I’m still here.
Still healing.
Still trusting.
And always remembering the day we lost QP.
But also remembering that even then—God never lost me.
In memory of QP
Forever loved. Forever missed.
💙