Chris Rich is a wife, mom, certified life coach, corporate mental health presenter, and the host of the Mixed Faith Relationship Podcast. She loves to help people show up as their best selves when life doesn’t go as planned. Chris has served in many Church leadership callings and is currently serving in the stake Relief Society presidency in Springfield, Massachusetts. For more information, visit her here.
Enter Chris…
Elder Patrick Kearon recently reminded us that we belong to the “Church of Joy.” I love that phrase. I believe it. The gospel of Jesus Christ is good news. It is hopeful. It is redemptive.
And…
Many of us come to Church with tender hearts, carrying very heavy burdens.
From my own experience, my returned-missionary husband—whom I married in the temple 27 years ago—and our three amazing children have no interest in religion. Going to church by myself can be really hard. I can’t tell you how many times I have ugly cried on the second row of the chapel, feeling lonely, jealous, worried, and overwhelmed.
Even if your experience looks different than mine, I imagine many of you can relate. Sometimes church doesn’t feel joyful. Sometimes it feels like one more place where our grief, disappointment, or questions don’t quite belong. Sometimes church doesn’t feel safe.
So what can we do—individually and collectively—to become better disciples of Jesus Christ and create more unity when so many of us are living in what I like to call the messy middle of our lives?
I want to focus on one sacred practice that has the power to change not only our hearts, but also our families, wards, and communities: learning how to truly mourn with those who mourn.
The Covenant We Sometimes Forget
When we were baptized, we entered into a covenant to
“mourn with those that mourn” and to “comfort those that stand in need of comfort.” (Mosiah 18:9)
I love this covenant. It is beautiful. It is relational. It is deeply Christlike.
And—it can be tricky.
When people are hurting, it’s uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable for them, and it’s uncomfortable for us. As humans, we like comfort. So, when someone is struggling, we often feel an urge to fix it. We want to say the right thing. Offer advice. Share doctrine. Point to eternal truths.
Or sometimes, we do nothing at all—because we don’t know what to say and we’re afraid of saying the wrong thing.
If you’ve ever been there, you’re in good company. We all have. Please don’t beat yourself up. You are doing the best you can with the tools you have. And when we know better, we can do better.
When Comfort Misses the Mark
When I was 14 years old, my 21-year-old brother—who had just returned honorably from a mission to Paraguay—died by suicide. It was devastating.
People were uncomfortable. No one knew what to do with grief that big, especially grief layered with shock and stigma. Many kind, well-meaning ward members offered words of comfort in sincere attempts to help:
- “Aren’t you glad to know families are forever?”
- “You’ll see him again.”
- “God has a plan.”
- “At least you still have 3 other brothers.”
Decades later, those doctrines are deeply comforting to me. I believe them wholeheartedly. But at the time? They didn’t feel comforting.
They felt dismissive—like my pain was being rushed past, like my grief was something to solve instead of something to sit with.
We often say things like:
- “It’s all going to work out.”
- “Cheer up.”
- “Think positive.”
- “Have more faith.”
- “Count your blessings.”
Think about how it feels when someone tells you to cheer up when you’re hurting.
We don’t need to take away people’s emotions from them. Having emotions is part of the human experience. It is okay to not be okay.
When Optimism Gets in the Way of Empathy
The gospel of Jesus Christ gives us hope and optimism—an incredible blessing. But sometimes, without realizing it, we use optimism to avoid pain. We try to put a silver lining on someone else’s suffering.
A friend miscarries, and we say, “Don’t worry—you’ll get pregnant again,” or “At least you already have children.”
A ward member loses a parent, and we say, “At least you had 50 good years together.”
Here’s something important to remember:
- Real empathy never involves the words “at least.”
- “At least” may be true.
- “At least” may be well-intended.
- But “at least” dismisses and minimizes the pain that exists right now.
We may also say, “I know exactly how you feel.” But the truth is—we don’t. Even when we’ve experienced something similar, no two people experience pain the same way. Our DNA, coping skills, histories, nervous systems, traumas, and support systems are different. We never know exactly how someone else is feeling.
A better response is: “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”
What the Lord Actually Asked Us to Do
I love the following quotes attributed to Hank Smith:
“God doesn’t ask us to cheer up those who mourn, fix those who mourn, or teach those who mourn. He asks us to mourn with those who mourn.”
He also cautioned:
“Don’t be so quick to tell people the Lord’s Atonement can heal them that you forget to mourn with them.”
And this powerful reminder:
“We can’t use the Lord’s Atonement as an excuse to not empathize with and serve those in pain.”
The Atonement of Jesus Christ does heal. It does redeem. But it never bypasses mourning. Even the Savior Himself did not bypass grief.
“Jesus Wept” (John 11:35)
One of the most tender verses in all of scripture is simply this: “Jesus wept.” Jesus knew Lazarus would live again—and yet, He wept. Why? Because He was present. He set aside His knowledge, power, and divine agenda to sit with His friends in their sorrow.
We can do the same.
What Mourning with Someone Can Look Like
Mourning with those who mourn does not require eloquence or perfect words. Often, it looks very simple:
- “I can’t imagine how hard this must be.”
- “That really stinks.”
- “I’m so sorry.”
- “I’m here.”
It can look like sitting quietly. Offering a hug. Crying with someone. Saying, “I’m here if you want to talk.”
We can also get gently curious:
- “How can I support you right now?”
- “Help me understand what this has been like for you.”
- “What’s been the hardest part?”
None of these responses rush grief away. They don’t require agreement. They don’t offer fixes. They offer presence.
We do not have to agree with someone to mourn with them.
We covenanted to mourn with those who mourn—full stop. There is no fine print about worthiness, belief, church attendance, or whether someone’s pain makes us uncomfortable.
When we create space for honest pain, we create safer, more Christlike communities. And often, that safety is what allows healing to unfold—in the Lord’s timing.
Becoming a Church That Feels Safer
If we truly want to be the Church of Joy, we must also be a Church that knows how to sit with sorrow.
Joy and grief are not opposites—they are companions.
The Resurrection only matters because death is real.
Hope only matters because pain is real.
When we learn to mourn with those who mourn—without fixing, minimizing, or rushing—we become more like the Savior. We become a place where people don’t have to pretend, perform, or hide the messy middle of their lives. And that, I believe, is one of the holiest forms of discipleship there is.
