If you’ve spent any time in disability ministry, you know that loss—and the grief that comes with it—is simply part of the journey. It’s not something you can ignore or push aside. It affects you personally, and it impacts the entire community.
Just before Easter, our group lost a legend. And I don’t mean that lightly—Tim was a literal legend among us. I often say he was like a real-life Forrest Gump. He was a musical savant who couldn’t read music yet could play anything he heard. His God-given gift took him all over the world. He won a gold medal in Japan, played piano at the White House for multiple presidents—including Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush—spent time with the Kennedys, and even performed alongside Liberace. Beyond music, he was also a gifted artist. He loved to paint, and while living in Southern California, he held an art show—rumor has it one of his pieces still hangs in Nancy Pelosi’s home.
Yet with all of those accomplishments, Tim remained incredibly humble and full of joy. He never saw himself as anything other than one of us. Every room he entered felt brighter because of the joy he carried.
At First Christian Church in Canton, Ohio, we had the incredible privilege of having Tim lead worship each week in our class for adults with disabilities. His presence was a gift.
His loss—heaven’s gain—has hit our group, and me personally, very hard. After his mother passed, my wife and I even had the honor of serving as his guardians for a time. Over the years, Tim became family to us.
This past Sunday, we held a memorial for Tim in our class. More than 100 people came, sharing stories and memories that made us laugh and cry. At the end, we played a video of Tim leading worship that we recorded during COVID.
In a way, we got to “worship with Tim” one more time.
As we watched and sang, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I tried to hold back tears, but I couldn’t. I found myself weeping in front of the class. Almost immediately, friends surrounded me—hugging me, crying with me. It was a deeply beautiful moment. Even now, thinking about it brings tears to my eyes.
That moment reminded me just how powerful it is to grieve together. Not just for me, but for everyone in the room. What if I had held it in? What if I hadn’t cried? I’m not sure the moment would have carried the same weight. But what I do know is this: in that space, there was an unspoken permission given—it’s okay to grieve. It’s healthy to grieve. And it became a moment in ministry I will never forget.
So, here’s what I want to say: it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to be real with the people you serve alongside. You don’t have to have it all together. You don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.
When—not if—your group experiences loss, take the time to process it together. Don’t rush past it or act like it didn’t happen. Every life matters. When someone in your ministry passes, go beyond the walls of the church. Spend time with their family and friends. Don’t get so busy doing “ministry” that you miss the chance to actually be present with people.
Because it’s in those moments—those raw, honest, human moments—that ministry becomes real. It stops being just a program and becomes something deeply meaningful.
And if grief and loss feel uncomfortable or unfamiliar to navigate, that’s okay, too. Don’t skip the grief. Don’t rush the healing. Show up, be real, and lead your people through it. That’s where true ministry happens.
We’ve created resources to help you walk through those moments when they come. Download them today so you are ready when the time comes for you.
