One of my children recently didn’t achieve the teacher recommendation they needed for another year on student council.
And I felt the tug-of-war in my innards. Part of me ached for the rejection they felt, particularly coming from a teacher who siblings confirmed was particularly difficult. I sought to turn off the ignition to my inner snowplow, shaking off the urge to appeal.
But words from a friend, maybe a decade ago now, bubbled to the surface of my brain. Can getting caught–or discipline itself–be a mercy?
Getting caught: A severe mercy
In my mind, the answer’s a resounding yes.read more
Genevieve’s voice poured through the phone to me. She’s a former pastor’s wife still wading through court proceedings following a horrific, jarring divorce. That’s not to mention the affair, the pregnant mistress, the mental disorders and gaslighting. Her descriptions called to mind a life upturned, shaken violently, spilled. How do you help a friend grieving after divorce?
Some pieces of her former life had temporarily skittered beyond vision: Her ally in the world’s onslaught. Financial security. A co-parent and advocate for their boys. Her helper to pick up the kids or fix the washing machine. A calm presence after a nightmare. Someone to process the day with. A lover of her body.
Some pieces felt irretrievable. Yet each of them was valuable as a wedding ring: her kids’ sense of safety and trust. Couple-friendships. Respect of their church community. Her dream to stay home with her kids.
My brain turned up a phrase I’d once heard: Divorce is death without casseroles.
Lost: A Sense of Worthiness
I couldn’t help but hearing Genevieve’s haunting repetition of a single adjective about how she felt: dirty. It popped up again and again, a garish thread in a sweater.
Beneath “dirty”, I heard shame. She’d grown up in a church that shunned divorce in nearly every circumstance. But now, within her own personal Hades, a lack of acceptability perched on her shoulder. Whispered in her ear.
When she checked the marital-status box of divorced, she mentally ticked failure.
And those nails-on-chalkboard phrases and responses meant as comfort after a death, only to do the opposite? They happen after divorce, too, curling the recipient inward (“Yeah, I always thought he was a jerk”).
The Emotional Kaleidoscope
But grief, including grieving after divorce, doesn’t always look like sadness.
Other avatars: Keeping up appearances. Loneliness. Fury. Abandonment. Denial. Anxiety. Unadulterated fear.
Because of this, you may witness your friend at their absolute worst. Resentful. Ugly-crying. Blaming. Ungrateful. Snippy. Petrified.
In these moments, your hands carry a singular opportunity: redeeming the unspoken messages of divorce with unconditional, unwavering love and acceptance.
Shame–that fear of disconnection, of “I’m not enough”? Its antidote is everything the Gospel is about. This is your chance to show your friend how Jesus loves them–a love very different from an ex-spouse.
How Jesus Replies to Divorce
Your friend may have heard, I failed.
Jesus says, I am enough (2 Corinthians 12:9).
Divorce: You’re rejected.
Jesus: I accept you and bring you close (Romans 15:7, Ephesians 2:13).
Divorce: I don’t know how I can go on.
Jesus: I’ve got hope and a future for you and your kids (Jeremiah 29:11).
Divorce: I don’t love you enough to stick around.
Jesus: I’m here yesterday. Today. Forever (Hebrews 13:8). And my love never gives up (1 Corinthians 13:4-8).
But wait: Helping your friend also allows you to experience the Gospel from Jesus’ side of things. “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2).
Grieving after Divorce: Ways to Help Your Friend
Genevieve’s story extends deep hope. “I’m surprised about the amount of personal growth that occurred for me…that something as horrific as I experienced can lead to beautiful things,” she told me.
“I like who I am as a person better on the other side of divorce.”
This mimics Psalm 126: “When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dreamed. Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy” (vv. 1, 5).
How can we help a friend move from grieving after divorce…to a place of total restoration?
Help them turn from resentment, bitterness, or victimhood–to being an overcomer with a future of possibility and hope (see Revelation 2:7, 11, 17, etc.).
1. Make time. For the long haul.
Walking with friends through their new, divorced normal often seems to take time we don’t have–and again, it’s not always fun or pretty.
But compared to other less-consequential items consuming our schedules, walking with a friend grieving after divorce offers a tremendous return on investment. We have a chance to love well.
It’s restorative simply to act as a guide for grief–being the person to listen. Receive. Mourn with. Tell the truth.
Grief changes
Like any other grief, anticipate that the first six months, then the first year (its holidays, “firsts”, and heartrending milestones), will be hardest.
It’s helpful to picture grief as you might sound waves: First, the crests and troughs are close together. But these waves stretch out.
Genevieve tells me, “I will experience grief regarding the ‘death’ of my close, intact, original family forever–and the effects of divorce on my kids.”
Your goal is to help your friend make it through this most intense initial season. Help them cling to God (…not you) as Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6; see also Psalm 18:1-3).
2. Ask good questions.
A couple of years ago during a business meeting, I received a call.
“Um. I just wanted to make sure you knew your house was on fire?”
Fires first (obviously) had to be extinguished from this home where my kids grew up, then damage assessed. Even the water to put out the fire–what you might liken to divorce proceedings in this analogy–created devastating damage.
But to begin repair, much of the house had to be gutted. What wasn’t accrued mold and water damage (leading to more than one tear-out). It would have made for unstable new structures.
Asking questions to help your friend think deeper can help prevent further damage from the rot of bitterness. You’re helping seek and remove what must go–and turn them away from rancor and hopelessness:
“Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs him down, but a good word makes him glad…A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver” (Proverbs 12:25, 25:11).
Try these:
What’s tough to forgive right now? (After expressing genuine compassion and working to understand: Let me pray with you about that.)
What “tapes” of negative self-talk and hurtful conversations are playing over and over in your head? Which of God’s truths can combat those?
What are three pieces of practical help that would make a big difference right now? (This helps your friend hone in on solutions rather than a buckshot of hopelessness.)
How is your identity affected right now? (This is a good chance to speak truth to your friend about how Jesus responds; see above.)
What are some ways the hurt is continuing right now? How do you feel you should respond? (Steer your friend toward biblical love, wisdom, and courage. This doesn’t have to be profound.)
What are you missing right now?
What kind of future would give you hope right now? What’s one step you can take toward that?
3. Build well.
Your friend is in a rebuilding process. Genevieve remarks that the “depth of the grief experienced has made me realize like never before that I am not in control and never was. It has shaken my faith–and also deepened it.”
That means steering your friend not toward hatred of an ex–or the equivalent of rotten interior structure. It’s encouraging a neutral tone with the kids. (Kids need to process, too, but not with an angry adult taking sides.) Hebrews counsels, “make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed” (12:13).
Building well also doesn’t mean getting your friend dating again, which could be a lot like spackling over gaping, fetid holes.
What could rebuilding well look like?
Establishing sustainable routines, asking the kids to pitch in more.
Enjoying the rousing routine, sense of value, and even distraction of fulfilling work–while still keeping work in its place.
Making time for adequate sleep, enough time off, and regular physical fitness your friend enjoys.
Identifying a list of problems to be solved, and steadily moving through them with grit.
Addressing life one day at a time in doable, bite-sized chunks. I finished my resume today. Then I figured out a plan for childcare. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how much we owe on the car.
Letting go of activities they can’t handle anymore.
Avoiding the false comfort of addiction.
Seeking advice on what makes them feel inadequate: finances, parenting issues, whether to put your house on the market.
Refusing to spend more time than necessary to emotionally process “shoulda-coulda-wouldas.”
Setting reachable, motivating goals for the future that establish a tangible sense of vision.
…And choosing to forgive and intentionally heal all over again whenever a new grief surfaces.
4. With a dedicated group of others, see how you can practically step in.
Coming up on this blog, I hope to share compiled practical ways you and other friends can help be the practical “training wheels” until your friend can ride a little more on their own–like bringing over a pizza, holding a packing party if they move, scheduling a massage, or steering them away from bad/wrong/vengeful behavior.
(Chances are single parents will always need some community help.)
Pro tip: Burned out friend ≠ helpful friend. So keep a sustainable pace. Set generous boundaries. And delegate to others! This is to be done in the Body of Christ–not you as superhero.
Together, you’ll be showing Jesus to a friend in a time where his or her life looks like nothing but a valley of dry bones. Locking arms, this is your chance to journey with your friend toward resurrection.
Helping a friend grieving after divorce?
Or have you been through one of your own?
What would you love people to know? Comment below!
In all its celebration of the best, Christmas still has a way of exposing…reality.
Take last Wednesday. The goal: 12 canning jars of sand-art brownies for my kids’ teachers. And of course, to make a memory.
But as I’ve mentioned before, sometimes my memory-making can go a little differently than I saw it going in my head. In this case, I struggled to hear Pandora’s Christmas music above, oh, my children yelling at each other. (And, uh, me raising my voice back.) And my cries of “Don’t eat that! You don’t want to give your teachers the gift of sickness! Go wash your hands with soap!”
I must have been seventeen. I still remember the room and where I was sitting in it. Sadly, I don’t remember the exact nature of the trauma that had come upon one of the youth group members, which was explained as we listened in relative silence that Sunday morning. I do know someone had died. But I remember the youth leader giving us advice about how to help those around them, and I specifically remember this: Here’s what not to say. Don’t tell them this was God’s will.
Yesterday was one of those days when I felt like I was walking against the wind so much of the day: straining uphill, my too-thin sweater tugged around me as I grimaced, head down. As my husband and I lifted down plates for dinner, I recounted the parts that made me want to tear my hair out. (Or maybe a small tuft of my children’s. …Joking.) In the course of things, I did remember some good points. Somehow, as I relayed them, they grew a little. I tucked my head with a smile.
He put his hands on my shoulder, leveled his hazel eyes with my blue ones. “I want you to know,” he said, “that you are incredibly blessed.”
Somehow, those words triggered that out-of-body sort of viewpoint I needed, to survey my life not from the perspective of loss, but of gain. Of beauty. Incredibly blessed?
Remember that moment when Bruce Banner suddenly morphs into the Incredible Hulk? His pupils start glowing; pretty soon his shoes are splitting off his expanding green feet.
Perhaps if my favorite blouse was ripping at the shoulder seams, my own stress identification would be a bit more astute. As it is, sometimes my husband sees my inner Hulk-ette beefing up a lot sooner than I do. (Irritating.) Can you hear me growl, “I’M…..NOT…..STRESSED!”
When I’m under stress, as much as I hate to admit it—people get a completely different me.
I'm totally #thatmom--the one diving into all the weirdness with my kids, sidestepping a few eyerolls.
Pull up a chair for practical ideas and discussions on the parenting, relationships, and spirituality we're all army-crawling through every day. After five and a half years in Uganda, my family and I returned to the U.S., where I write and speak professionally, and we continue to work on behalf of the poor. My first solo book, Permanent Markers: Spiritual Life Skills to Write on Your Kids' Hearts (Harvest House), released October 2021.
In all its celebration of the best, Christmas still has a way of exposing…reality.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
