loss Archives - Tomme Stevenson

June 23, 2026June 4, 2026

Buried but Not Forgotten

Buried Pain Buried but not forgotten, I was asked today to join a panel to discuss one of the most painful events of my life. The purpose is noble: to help others understand pain, survival, and the hidden struggles people carry. We go through these stages to refine ourselves and become more human in our interactions with others.

We live in a broken world where pain is an inevitable part of our lives. Because we only know our own experiences, it is hard to imagine others going through the same thing. Our pain is unique to us.

John 16:33, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

Buried

What you have gone through prepares you to help others. It makes you relatable. It also gives you the experience to know that you can survive and thrive in a world that is doing its best to crush you. That is an important message to pass on.

But pain is pain. Much of it I have buried deep in the ground. I have even removed the headstone so I do not go back to revisit it. It is part of me. It influences decisions in subtle, subconscious ways. I don’t have to make friends with it. I need to understand it and find a way forward without letting it dictate my life. And I have.

Hebrews 13:5, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”

Now I have been asked to resurrect it. I have been asked to go deep into the woods and find the indentation in the ground marking its resting place. I must search for it. Remember where and why I buried it. Then I have to revive it, bring it back to life in front of others.

Resurrected

I don’t know how. I’ve gone over it and over it in my mind. How do I talk about something so personal without being condescending or glib? How do I keep from masking the hurt and shame while staying honest? No one, not even my closest and dearest friend, knows the whole story. Mostly to protect the other party, partly to protect myself.

I’m afraid I have no advice today except this. That day, the one that changed my life forever, was not a hard decision. It came naturally.

God said, “Do this,” and I did.

I think it saved a life.

But it cost me everything.

To the outside world, it was a failure on a grand scale. But to me, there was no plan “B”. I have never regretted it, and given the chance, I would do it again.

Isaiah 41:10, “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

Living

But there is a scar that runs deep. Every once in a while, I gently rub my hand over it to remind myself I am still alive. I have to do that because I am human, and until that changes, I will feel pain from time to time.

I have a God who has never abandoned me, even in the moments when I could not understand the cost. In my darkest hour, He is there. There is nothing I will ever go through that is a surprise to Him. And, if I allow, He will use it for my good.

2 Corinthians 12:9, “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

May 19, 2026May 1, 2026

Love, Loss, and What Remains

Love, Loss, and What Remains. Sometimes, for reasons I don’t always understand, life doesn’t just disappoint—it crashes. Not the hardship we expect or prepare for, but the kind that divides everything into before and after. A moment arrives—a phone call, a diagnosis, a goodbye you didn’t know was final—and life as you knew it vanishes.

What follows is not noise but silence. A black silence. Thought escapes us. The mind, so capable of solving problems and navigating difficulty, simply stops. It has been struck too hard, too suddenly, too completely. There is no immediate path forward, no reason to rise—only the weight of what cannot be undone.

LOVE

The source of this kind of devastation is almost always love.

We can make sense of physical pain. We can measure it, treat it, and endure it. But when something touches the heart—when love is broken, removed, or lost—the damage is different. Love creates attachment, identity, and meaning. When it is taken away, it is not merely a loss; it is disorientation. The mind searches for resolution, but none is to be found.

I would like to say that we heal over time. Sometimes we do. But sometimes we don’t heal completely; we learn to live with what remains. The greater the love, the greater the pain. Not feeling that pain would mean something far worse: that we had never loved deeply.

The privilege of loving carries the possibility of immense pain.

1 Peter 4:8, “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”

LOSS

I live with that pain. Fifteen years later, it still brings me to tears.

I never want to become the person who forgets—who buries it so deeply that the heart grows numb to its presence. That experience shaped who I am. At one point in my life, it was a driving light. It changed me and made me better.

Yes, this is mine to carry. It is something I never want to lose. Anything this powerful is meant to be remembered. I want that feeling to keep shaping me, not fade into something distant and harmless. When I feel its weight, I understand others’ pain in a way I never could before. What once seemed like it would destroy me has become a source of connection to the rest of humanity. It remains one of the darkest moments of my life. But I survived—and I continue to live.

If love has the power to break us, it also reveals something deeper about how we were made.

God created us to love and be loved. This is not a minor part of who we are—it is central to our design. It is the essence of Christ’s teaching. Love binds us together, gives meaning to our lives, and drives us toward one another. When directed rightly, it changes lives for the better. When withheld or broken, it leaves damage in its wake.

Psalm 147:3, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

But that damage does not define our worth.

Love lost has a way of making us feel unworthy of love. That is the lie it tells. If we believe it, it pulls us deeper into despair. But the truth stands in direct opposition to that lie: God’s love is not conditional. It is not withdrawn, and it does not fail as human love sometimes does.

1 John 4:19, “We love because He first loved us.”

He is present in the silence. He is present in the pain. Even when we cannot feel it, we are not alone.

WHAT REMAINS

I have come to see pain differently. Not as something to escape or erase, but as evidence. Evidence that something real existed. Evidence that love once took hold. If I had never loved, I would never have known this depth of feeling. That experience, however costly, would be absent from my life.

I would be less for it.

The pain remains, not as something to be feared but as something to be understood. It is part of what makes us human. And, in a way that is difficult to explain yet impossible to ignore, it is also part of what enables us to truly love again.

1 Corinthians 13, “If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.”

March 3, 2026February 18, 2026

When Hope and Depression Share the Same Heart

depression and faith When hope and depression share the same heart, Christ becomes essential. While I was in Kyrgyzstan, I had a conversation that stayed with me. A woman shared that her mother — a trained psychologist — is battling depression. What makes her situation more complicated is not just the illness itself but also the theology surrounding it. Some in their Christian community believe that a Christian should not experience depression. The reasoning seems straightforward:

Christ is our hope. If hope exists, depression should not be present. It sounds faithful, but it is not entirely biblical.

“I find myself frequently depressed—perhaps more so than any other person here. And I find no better cure for that depression than to trust in the Lord with all my heart and seek to realize afresh the power of the peace-speaking blood of Jesus.” – Charles Spurgeon

Speaking Thoughtfully About Depression

Before referencing Scripture, we need to define terms precisely.

There is a difference between everyday sadness and clinical depression. Clinical depression involves a persistent low mood, loss of interest, changes in sleep or appetite, difficulty concentrating, and physical exhaustion that can last for weeks or longer. It is widely recognized in medicine and psychology as a real health condition that impacts both emotional and physical well-being.

This isn’t about reducing the soul to chemistry; it’s about recognizing that we are embodied beings. Spiritual faith doesn’t dismiss physical processes. The Bible was written in a pre-modern medical context, yet it often speaks openly about deep emotional pain.

Scripture Does Not Hide Despair

The book of Lamentations clearly shows that sorrow has a place in faith. The author describes suffering, bitterness, and a soul that is “downcast” (Lamentations 3:20). These words remain in Scripture — they are not removed.

Yet in the same chapter, we read:

Lamentations 3:21, “Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope…”

Notice what happens. The despair is real. It is voiced. It is not denied. Hope emerges not by pretending sorrow doesn’t exist, but by remembering who God is in the midst of it.

Hope and lament coexist.

Elijah and the Collapse After Victory

In 1 Kings 19, Elijah has a major spiritual victory when fire comes down from heaven. But soon after, he flees into the wilderness and prays for death.

“I have had enough, Lord… Take my life.”

God does not accuse him of weak faith. He gives him sleep, provides food, and restores his strength before speaking to him softly.

Scripture demonstrates that there is no conflict between spiritual devotion and emotional exhaustion. A prophet can love God deeply and still go through despair.

The Psalms and Honest Faith

Almost one-third of the Psalms are laments.

“How long, O Lord?”
“My tears have been my food day and night.”
“Darkness is my closest friend.” (Psalm 88)

Psalm 88 ends without resolution. There is no triumphant closing line. Yet, it remains Scripture.

The Bible does not sanitize suffering. It elevates it.

Even Jesus said in Gethsemane, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” (Matthew 26:38). Sorrow is not evidence of spiritual failure.

The Danger of Simplistic Theology

Our darkness does not threaten Christ. He encounters us in it — and sometimes the most faithful thing a believer can do is cling to Him while the night still lingers.

When we tell a suffering believer that their depression reflects a lack of faith, we risk increasing their shame, which is already substantial. We also risk alienating them from the community that is intended to share their burdens. Furthermore, we risk misrepresenting Scripture.

Christian hope isn’t emotional immunity; it’s an anchor (Hebrews 6:19). Anchors aren’t needed in calm seas but are crucial during storms.

Depression, in various forms, affects many of us throughout our lives—through grief, prolonged stress, illness, or loss. That reality does not threaten Christianity. In fact, the Bible’s honesty about despair is one of its strongest points. It presents us with faithful people who struggle with darkness but still trust God.

Faith doesn’t lessen our humanity; it shows us how to steer through it.

A Message to the daughter — and to the Church

To the daughter who loves her mother: your mother’s struggles are not signs of spiritual failure. They show that she is human. The fact that she understands the mind does not protect her from suffering. Knowledge does not make her immune.

To the church: the safest place in the world for someone battling depression should be the body of Christ, not a courtroom or a theological debate. It should serve as a refuge.

Hope doesn’t depend on the absence of sorrow; it relies on God’s presence within it. The author of Lamentations acknowledged the darkness and remembered the Lord through it. Maybe that is the more faithful approach.

Hope isn’t the denial of sorrow; it’s a choice to trust that God stays present even when the soul feels downcast.