God Gives Hope To the Brokenhearted

A little over a year ago, four girls at Pepperdine—no, four beautiful friends—passed away tragically in a car accident.

I remember exactly where I was when I found out. I was abroad. A friend was sitting next to me, slowly typing out one of the girls’ names on Instagram, asking if I knew her.

I vividly recall the shock, the terror, the speechlessness that washed over me when she typed out her full name—accompanied by a profile picture where she was still smiling, still alive in that small digital square. I stood up, walked out of the room, trying to breathe, trying not to absolutely fall apart.

These four girls were some of the first people I knew so closely who had died.

Since then, many others have passed—some near, some far. My grandma. My friend’s dad. My friend’s friend. My parents’ small group friend. My old coach’s daughter. The list goes on.

It’s unsettling how life moves so quickly, so smoothly, so nonchalantly—until suddenly, it doesn’t. Until death interrupts. It’s always there, lurking, reminding us that it is imminent, unplanned, unexplainable, uncontrollable.

For those closest to loss, grief remains, and I cannot even begin to fathom what that experience is like. But for those further away, like myself, we return–somewhat–back to normal life. Until something triggers us to remember.

Today was one of those moments.

I was driving back from LA to Pepperdine, a two-hour journey through relentless Friday night traffic. The rain was pouring, rocks were tumbling onto the highway, cars were stopping abruptly. The fog made it impossible to see the winding road ahead. I genuinely felt like I might die.

In the background, my Hamilton playlist played loudly—a distraction from the treacherous road. The first song that came on was Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story.

I’ve listened to this song countless times. I love the entire Hamilton soundtrack—it’s absolutely brilliant. But I’ve never cried listening to it before.

This time, I did.

If you’re familiar with the musical, you know that this song tells the story of Eliza Hamilton after her husband’s death. Already crushed by her son’s passing, she now bears the weight of losing Hamilton too. And yet, instead of succumbing to grief, she chooses to act. She interviews every soldier who fought by Hamilton’s side. She reads through all his writings, carefully deciphering the words he left behind. She fights against slavery. She starts an orphanage. She tells his story.

I sobbed.

I know parts of the musical are fictionalized, but I couldn’t help but imagine: How did Eliza do it? How does one live on after losing the two most important people in their life? How do you not drown in grief?

How do you accept the fact that you don’t get a say in who lives and who dies? That these matters are simply not in our power?

I thought about Eliza.

I thought about Asha, Deslyn, Niamh, and Peyton.

I thought about my grandma, my friend’s dad, my parents’ small group friend, and our family friend’s daughter.

I thought about their families. Their friends. Their spouses. The ones who grieve every single day, who somehow, some way, keep moving forward.

Earlier that day, I had been at a conference about the Asian American Church. One of the pastors shared a story about a Black & Asian Lives protest rally he had attended. During the event, a solemn Black man approached them.

The pastor asked him, “Are you glad to see this happening?”

The man shook his head.

“What would make you glad?” the pastor asked.

The man replied, “If you come back tomorrow.”

That line stuck with me.

Because grief works the same way.

Deep mourning happens when death occurs. But slowly, over time, those farther removed go back to their lives. We, at times, forget.

We forget those we have lost.

We forget those who are still grieving.

We forget the imminence and constancy of death.

And in doing so, we forget to be kind, to be empathetic, to be gracious—because we truly never know what someone is going through.

Today, I came back.

And I think it’s important to come back. To sit in the weight of remembering. It might be heavy. It might make you sob.

As I sat there in my car, driving through the storm, rocks tumbling, fog blinding, rain pouring, tears drenching my eyes, the lyrics in the background played:

How lucky we are to be alive right now.

I felt that lyric was true.

But I also realized something.

That sentiment alone—gratitude for life—wasn’t enough to sustain me through grief.

Because who cares if I’m alive when the ones I love have died?

Instead, I found myself thankful for Jesus.

Thankful that He watches over those we’ve lost. That those who professed the faith are now singing and dancing in Heaven. That God is a God who brings beauty from ashes. That He enables people, like Eliza, to make an impact in the world by telling the stories of those they loved. That He invites us to do good even when everything is falling apart.

That He gives us a hope beyond death.

As I drove the rest of the way home, I knew God was covering me. Not in the sense that He would guarantee my safety—though He did. But in the sense that He was with me.

That He is with those who are weeping.

That He is with those who have passed.

That He was with me, a crying woman driving through the rain, and that whether or not death comes, the fact that I have Jesus never changes.

Maybe that sounds bleak.

But in that moment, it wasn’t.

In that moment, it was my greatest hope.

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” -Revelation 21:4

Originally published on the author’s Substack