I Cried Over Legos. . .
Dear friends,
I saw a meme this week about navigating the maze of toys on Christmas morning, and I started crying.
Not the gentle, nostalgic tears you might expect. Real, unexpected sobs.
Because I don’t have that anymore. My boys are grown. There are no Legos scattered across the living room floor. No voices calling out, “Mom, we almost have this done—one more minute, please!”
And here’s the thing: Do I actually miss stepping on Legos in the middle of the night?
No. I don’t.
But I miss the boys at that age. I miss hearing their excitement. I miss those moments when they were so absorbed in building something that time stopped mattering.
Now it’s my heart saying “one more minute” when I’m around them. Slow down, time. Please.
The Grief That Catches You Off Guard
This time of year stirs up all kinds of grief, doesn’t it?
I miss the smell of evergreen trees and cedar boughs from home. I miss going to Christmas Eve service with my parents in Northern Minnesota. But traveling there this time of year—with the weather, the distance, the reality of our lives—it’s just hard.
Sometimes your heart has such a longing for something that once was and will never be again.
And sometimes you try to explain to someone how you’re feeling, and they don’t hear you.
That happened to me recently. The person didn’t mean to not listen—they just couldn’t handle the emotion of the moment. I was grieving for what I wish could be but isn’t. And in that moment, I felt invisible.
Maybe you’ve felt that too.
What We Do With This Grief
Here’s what I’m learning: We can shove this aside and say it’s not important. We can tell ourselves these are “small” griefs, not worth mentioning when others are dealing with “real” loss.
But that’s not true.
Your grief matters. All of it. The Legos and the cedar boughs. The empty chairs and the changed traditions. The longing for what was and will never be again.
We want to fix grief. We want to manage it, schedule it for a more convenient time, or skip over it entirely.
But what if we welcomed it instead?
When Grief and Joy Hold Hands
A dear woman said something to me this week that I can’t shake:
“It’s like grief and joy are holding hands.”
That phrase has stuck with me all week. Because that’s exactly what this season feels like, isn’t it?
I can miss the Lego mazes AND be grateful my boys are building their own lives.
I can long for Northern Minnesota Christmas Eves AND celebrate the traditions we’re creating here.
I can grieve what was AND hold space for what is.
Grief and joy aren’t opposites. They’re companions. Where there’s been great love, both will show up.
What God Says About Your Tears
Listen to this tender truth from Psalm 56:8:
“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”
Friends, God isn’t asking us to stop crying over the “small” things. He’s not telling us to get over it or move on or be grateful for what we have.
He’s collecting every single tear.
The ones over Lego mazes. The ones over cedar boughs. The ones when someone doesn’t hear us. The ones for what we wish could be but isn’t.
That’s not distance. That’s intimacy. That’s love.
And Psalm 16:11 reminds us: “You will fill me with joy in your presence.”
The joy isn’t in our circumstances being perfect. It’s not in having everyone at the table or traditions staying the same or time slowing down when we ask it to.
The joy is IN HIS PRESENCE.
Immanuel. God WITH us. Right here in the middle of the grief.
This Week’s Podcast
From that phrase—”grief and joy holding hands”—I created this week’s podcast episode. It’s the final episode of the Be Still series, and it’s about what to do when grief shows up.
Not the grief we planned for. The grief that catches us off guard in the Target aisle, while flipping through recipes, when we see a meme about Christmas morning chaos.
You’ll hear:
The REST framework for processing grief when it hits unexpectedly
Why your “small” griefs matter just as much as “big” ones
How to hold both grief and joy in God’s presence
A journaling exercise for the tears you’re carrying
The Be Still prayer for Immanuel (God WITH us)
[Listen to “What to Do When Grief Shows Up” here →]
A Practice for This Week
Draw a simple bottle in your journal. Inside and around it, write the tears you’re carrying:
The Lego mazes you miss (even though you don’t really miss stepping on them)
The traditions that have changed
The longing for what was and will never be again
The moment someone didn’t hear you
The “small” griefs you’ve been told aren’t important enough
Remember: Immanuel collects every single tear. None are too small.
He sees them all. He holds them all. He holds you.
Where There Is Great Grief...
Here’s what I keep coming back to: You wouldn’t feel this ache if you hadn’t loved deeply.
Grief is the evidence of love. It’s the price we pay for having someone or something matter so much to us.
I miss stepping on Legos because I loved those boys at that age with my whole heart.
I miss Northern Minnesota Christmas Eves because those moments with my parents were sacred.
You miss what you miss because it mattered. Because they mattered.
And God doesn’t ask us to minimize that love or rush past that grief.
He sits with us in it.
As We Wait
This Advent, as we wait for the coming of Christ, maybe we’re also learning to wait with our grief. To sit with the ache. To trust that Immanuel—God WITH us—meets us right here.
Not on the other side of our grief. Not after we’ve “processed” it properly.
Right here. Right now. In the Lego-less living rooms and the too-quiet Christmas mornings and the moments when no one seems to hear us.
“You will fill me with joy in your presence.” (Psalm 16:11)
His presence is the constant. That’s where grief and joy can hold hands.
That’s where we find what we’ve been longing for all along.
Ways I Can Support You
Listen to the final Be Still episode: What to Do When Grief Shows Up [Podcast link]
Need someone to hold space for you? I’m offering free 50-minute coaching consultations. Sometimes you just need someone to hear you—really hear you.
Looking for deeper resources? My books Promised Rest and Promised Hope explore how God meets us in our struggles.
Friends, I’m praying for you this week. For your Lego mazes and your cedar boughs. For the griefs you’ve been told don’t matter and the longings no one else understands.
May you know that Immanuel is with you—collecting every tear, holding every ache, sitting with you in what was and what is and what will never be again.
You are loved. You are held. You are seen.
In His peace,
Michelle
P.S. If this stirred something in you, would you forward it to someone who might need to hear it? Sometimes knowing we’re not alone in our “small” griefs is the greatest gift we can receive.