When we were in the hospital, shortly after learning that our daughter would likely never come home, I remember having a conversation. My husband and I stood in the muted colors of the Ronald McDonald asking each other.

 Should we let them in?

Neither of us wanted to. Letting in our small group from church felt too raw, too personal. Not because we didn’t love them or know they loved us, but because it was absolutely terrifying. They’d never seen us this way. We had never seen ourselves this way: utterly broken, completely stripped to the barest most vulnerable version of ourselves.

The past week in the hospital, we couldn’t eat, barely slept. My entire body buzzed with adrenaline and yet felt hollow with fatigue. I was weak with heartache and physical pain from surgery. Our eyes were bloodshot from constant crying. Our bodies physically shrunk; our strength paper thin.

In this place it felt (feels) easiest to hide. Yet despite all this, a thought came clearly into the fog of my mind: to invite them in—literally, putting their names on that front desk list—and of course, figuratively, was the only way we wouldn’t walk alone.

These are the people who are going to walk with us…after.

That night some of our friends came to meet our daughter for the first and last time. They saw her covered in tubes and connected to machines and somehow still beautiful. They came and wrapped themselves around us and saw our tears and cried their own. They filled the hospital chapel and prayed. They touched her sweet face. I wish I could say it was wonderful, but it was also terrible. It probably would’ve been easier to hide, to be alone, to stay concealed in our own bubble of fear and pain. And yet now we had a small army of people who could fathom a slice of our grief.

We left the hospital a few days later without our daughter. She was gone from this earth. We will never be the same.

I don’t know what would’ve happened if we’d decided to do it all alone. Yet, I believe that somehow letting them in became essential to keep on living. These friends knew they were on the metaphorical list. So after, they wouldn’t let us walk alone; and they didn’t let us walk alone.

I tell this story today with the sky white with clouds and the ground wet with rain. It’s cold and quiet. It’s a day for remembering. I tell this story because I think I needed to and because I sincerely believe we are not meant to hide in our deepest pain.

Even in the darkest, most confusing moments, when truly no one can truly grasp what is happening inside us, we can invite someone in. Not only to see the vulnerable and hurt parts, but to allow them a chance to comfort us, to be Jesus to us—”to be near to the brokenhearted and the crushed in spirit.” They will not do it perfectly, but if they are true and loving, they will accept the call to walk with us in the years of grieving and healing to come.