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.
💙