Can’t Imagine

“I can’t imagine.”

People say it with soft eyes, their voices heavy with kindness. I’ve heard it countless times since Caleb, my only son, died at 21. On occasion, I pause, wrestling with its truth. Can anyone truly imagine this pain without living it? Or is it so raw, so human, that we all instinctively grasp the weight of such loss, even if we shy away from its depths?

Before Caleb’s death, I stood on the other side of that phrase. A friend lost their son to suicide. I don’t recall if I said, “I can’t imagine,” but I know I tried to force my mind there, to picture what it would be like if Caleb were gone. Standing at the foot of the stairs, looking at the door to his room, I tried to feel what it would be like if my child were gone. I stood at the edge of that abyss, willing myself to peer in, but my heart refused. It was as if God had locked that door, sparing me—for a time—from a pain too vast to fathom.

About six years after looking up those stairs, we had moved, and I was redoing our basement. I stripped the carpet off the floors and ground down the concrete. As I applied stain to the floor, I was unaware my son was dead.

When two cops came to the house and told us, in an instant, that locked door didn’t just open—it shattered. No one had to teach me what this grief was. A tidal wave of sorrow, rage, and longing crashed over me, pulling me under. Here I am, nearly seven years later. It still tosses me, sometimes gently, sometimes violently, with no shore in sight. This is the grief of a father who fought to bring life into the world, only to lose it in a way I could never have imagined.

And yet, in this storm, I wrestle with God. I cry out, like Job, demanding answers: Why my son? Why this path? My faith, once a steady anchor, now feels like a frayed rope—still holding, but strained. I doubt. I question. But I also worship. In the darkness, I find God’s presence, not in easy answers, but in the quiet assurance that He weeps with me. That He understands the pain.

If you’ve said, “I can’t imagine,” I understand. No sane person can imagine their child in such harm. The imagination cannot bear the pain. But maybe imagination isn’t the point. Maybe it’s enough to sit with the griever, to hold space for their pain, to trust that God is near even when the way feels impossibly dark.