– Finding God in Grief.

A couple of weeks ago, I received a request for stock photos from towns between Houston and San Antonio—places I hadn’t yet photographed. What started as a simple business inquiry turned into something more. It became a journey not just across small towns, but one that wasn’t on any map—yet felt unmistakably chosen for me, where questions were waiting and answers were ready. That path through small towns led me into something far greater—a revelation of God’s presence.

Questions in the Silence

In times of loss, many of us—believers and non-believers alike—ask: If there is a God, why would he allow this to happen? Grief makes philosophers of us all. The search for meaning is often an attempt to make peace with pain. But what if the answers aren’t missing—just unnoticed? What if they’ve been in front of us all along?

Life moves fast. Responsibilities pile up. We focus on what’s next, and in doing so, we miss what’s now. But when we slow down—when we’re forced to—something shifts. The unseen becomes visible. This slowing down has been central to my process of finding God in grief—recognizing that healing comes not in rushing forward but in the quiet of the present.

Saturday in Gonzales

My typical small-town photography days are Sundays—fewer cars, fewer people, and cleaner shots of historic buildings.

On Saturday, I headed south from my home in Mansfield, passing through Gonzales. I hadn’t planned to photograph the town itself this time, but I had planned to stop and capture its monuments—those markers of the beginning of the Texas Revolution. And fitting this stop was, as this was the beginning of something.

An Unexpected Encounter

Sunday’s route was ambitious: Yoakum, Hallettsville, Shiner, Moulton, Flatonia, Schulenburg, Weimar, and Columbus. I started in downtown Yoakum, picking a starting point and parked. As I stepped out and began walking the area with my camera, I noticed a woman—around my age—sitting in front of a historic building, reading a book. The streets were empty. Quiet. The kind of peaceful morning I hope for on these photo trips. I walked the entire downtown, capturing what I could in the early light. On my way back to the car, I passed her again. “Beautiful morning to be up early reading,” I said. She smiled, looked up at the sky, and said, “I’m really just trying to catch some sun.”

Out There, Doing What I Love

The day continued. Town after town, camera in hand, I followed the rhythm I know so well—observe, compose, shoot, move on. By the time I reached Columbus, the afternoon sun was high, the heat oppressive. Still, the town was a stunner.

As I photographed the square, I noticed a couple—probably in their late 30s—walking together. She was immersed in the buildings and the history, like me, but taking photos simply with her phone, pausing to read markers. He was just walking beside her, attentive, but not particularly engaged. And there it was. I already knew I was alone. I’ve been missing my wife for a long time now. I was out doing what I love: photography. But seeing a woman enjoying something she loved, with someone by her side who may not have shared her passion but was there anyway—it quietly pressed on a tender place in me.

The Weight of Love and Loss

That feeling followed me home. A few days later, it surfaced again— in memories of my wife. She left about a year and a half ago. After more than 20 years together, our marriage ended. It wasn’t death, but it feels like one. And in some ways, that kind of ending carries its own kind of mourning. She wasn’t just my wife—she was my closest friend. We shared everything: conversation, humor, interests, even silence. I still love her. That hasn’t changed.

Since then, I’ve met women I’ve found attractive, but I can’t bring myself to date. It feels like betrayal, not just to her, but to a love I’m still holding onto. I know I couldn’t give anyone else what I gave her.

So yes, I’ve asked: Why would God allow this to happen? Yet through this pain, I continue finding God in grief—learning that faith and love endure even when life’s questions feel unanswered.

What Love Really Means

Dating is a doorway. Love is the house you build. Marriage, though—it’s more than both. It’s a covenant. And covenants are upheld not just with love, but with loyalty.

I think of my elderly neighbor. His wife’s health declined suddenly, and now he manages their household and cares for her alone, day in and day out. She can no longer return his love — her mind hardly recognizes him, her body barely responds. But he stays, not out of obligation, but out of loyalty to the life they built together. His love remains steady. It’s not glamorous. But it’s love. Quiet. Difficult. Unshakable.

Loyalty can exist without love. But love, when partnered with loyalty—that’s the essence of something sacred.

Finding God in the Backroads

We hear the vows: For better or worse. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. In joy and in sorrow. These aren’t romantic words. They’re steadfast, gritty, and enduring.

That moment in Columbus—the woman and the man, walking side by side—kept returning to me. At first, it stirred something painful. But over time, the meaning began to unfold. I wasn’t alone in that moment. And the deeper truth is this: I haven’t been alone in any of it. (click play on the music below, and continue reading!)

I may forever remain faithful to the one I loved—and still love.

But now I see what I couldn’t before.

God has been walking with me all along. In the silence. In the sorrow. In the heat of the day and the hush of empty streets. His love is constant, quiet, and always near.

On my way home, just south of Waco, I found myself headed straight into a supercell thunderstorm. Ahead and to the left, I spotted what might have been the beginnings of rotation—a possible tornado. Then, about five storm chaser vehicles sped past me, coming from the storm while I was driving toward it.

I chose to turn around, then headed west instead of north, and parked where I could watch safely from a distance. Far enough west, the rain stayed away, and even some sun peeked through. The clouds continued to twist and churn ominously just south of me. I was no longer in danger, but I was close…

Then, as if to balance the dark from the south, a rainbow appeared to the east, vivid and bright against the gray and light streaked sky.

That moment felt like a symbol for everything I’d been experiencing—the heavy-heartedness, the unexpected turns, the quiet hope that breaks through even in the darkest skies. The storm chasers had steered me another way, and instead of danger, I was gifted with a breathtaking reminder: even after the fiercest storms, beauty and light remain.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted. And now, I know that’s not just a verse—it’s a reality. One I’m finally beginning to understand through this journey of life.

Author: Tim Maxwell