Elizabeth Hunt had learned that grief did not always arrive with warning. At times it settled into her body before she had time to prepare, like those moments in the driver’s seat when the door was closed and the world waited just beyond reach. Her hands would rest on the steering wheel, fingers tightening just slightly, as though her body remembered something her mind was trying not to revisit.

It had been two years since Sarah died. Fifteen years old. Learning how to drive. Still laughing in the passenger seat, still practicing turns and stops, still believing there was plenty of time ahead. The accident had been sudden, the kind of tragedy that fractures life into before and after without permission. Elizabeth learned that some memories demanded distance. To dwell on the phone ringing, the words that followed, was to feel the air leave her lungs. So she learned, instead, to approach the grief sideways.

Every morning, she climbed into the car anyway.

Luke needed her to. Ten years old, all elbows and earnest questions, still small enough to trust that his mother’s presence meant safety. Elizabeth was a single mother now, a hairstylist by trade, her hands steady even when her heart felt anything but. Survival settled into a rhythm of school drop-offs, work schedules, grocery lists, and bedtime routines, and Luke counted on her to hold it together. Avoiding the car was not an option. Avoiding work was not an option. Love demanded movement, even when fear resisted it.

Most days, Elizabeth could feel again. She could focus on the familiar cadence of her work. The snip of scissors. The warmth of conversation. The way clients relaxed once they settled into the chair. There was comfort in that routine, in the predictability of it. But there were mornings when grief rose uninvited, pressing against her chest before she even reached the ignition. Mornings when the thought of driving tightened her throat, when fear whispered that loss had not finished taking from her yet.

On those days, Elizabeth did not scold herself for the fear. She had learned that fighting it only made it louder. Instead, she acknowledged it, breathed through it, and turned the key anyway. Scripture had taught her that strength did not always look like fearlessness. Sometimes it looked like persistence. “Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you,” the psalmist promised. Elizabeth did not always feel sustained. She trusted that quiet obedience was enough.

Avoidance, she was learning, was not always refusal. Sometimes it was pacing. Sometimes it was choosing not to stare directly into the wound until the body was ready. There were things she could face and things she could not, and wisdom lived in knowing the difference. Grief had its own timetable, and forcing it only deepened the ache.

On the days that cost her the most, Elizabeth began to practice a small kindness toward herself. Nothing extravagant. Just gentleness. She would stop at the corner café after work and order a latte, sitting by the window long enough to feel the warmth of the cup seep into her hands. She liked the way the café hummed quietly around her, the low murmur of voices, the sense that life continued even when her own felt fragile.

Other evenings, she went straight home. Once Luke was settled for the night, his homework finished, his teeth brushed and all of his questions finally answered. Elizabeth brewed her favorite blend of tea. She moved slowly then, deliberately. The kettle. The cup. A small snack she actually enjoyed. She sat at the kitchen table and allowed herself to rest without guilt, even if only for a few minutes.

At first, rest had felt almost disrespectful, as though pausing somehow betrayed the depth of her love for Sarah. But slowly, Elizabeth began to understand that rest was not abandonment. It was obedience. “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” Jesus had said—not after the pain was resolved, but right in the middle of it.

Elizabeth did not rest because the grief was gone. She rested because she was still here. Because her body needed care. Because tomorrow would ask her to get behind the wheel again, and she wanted to meet it with something left inside her.

If you find yourself avoiding something today, whether it is rest, stillness, movement, or the next hard step, know this. Avoidance does not always mean failure. Sometimes it means you are surviving wisely. Sometimes it means you are learning how to live without breaking.

There is no shame in stopping for coffee on a hard day. No weakness in brewing tea once the house grows quiet. God is not measuring your strength by how little you need rest, but by how willing you are to receive it.

And if you are weary this season, carrying grief quietly while life keeps asking for more, may you hear the same gentle invitation Elizabeth learned to trust. You are not meant to carry everything alone. Sit. Breathe. Stay awhile.

Dear Lord,

For every parent who wakes each morning carrying a loss that never fully sleeps, be near.

For those who still pack lunches, drive to work, and tend to other children while their hearts ache for the one who is missing, give strength that does not demand perfection.

When the fear returns, when ordinary moments stir extraordinary pain, steady their breath.

Remind them they are not failing because they struggle. They are loving through their loss.

Teach us how to rest without guilt, to pause without shame, and to trust that caring for our weary bodies does not diminish the depth of our love.

Hold the memories that are too heavy for us to carry today. Walk with us when the road feels unbearable. And when we cannot find the words to pray, let Your presence be enough.

In Jesus Name Amen.

If Tea Time with Mandy has offered you a moment of calm, understanding, or companionship in a season that feels heavy, you’re invited to support this work through Buy Me a Coffee. Your tips help make space for stories like this. Stories that are written slowly, prayerfully, and with care for those who are navigating grief, anxiety, and quiet endurance. Every cup supports the time it takes to write, reflect, and create a place where others can pause, breathe, and feel less alone. Thank you for being here, and for allowing this corner of rest to exist.