Process Theology for People Who Grieve
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​“Grief is love with nowhere to go.” — Jamie Anderson
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​​Missing my Daughter

an anonymous reflection

When I lost my child, Frances, I grieved terribly. My arms were full of love, but there was no one to hold. My love had nowhere to go.

For a long time, it just sat there—heavy, aching, silent. I didn’t want to let it go, and I didn’t know how. It filled the room like fog. It followed me like a shadow. I carried it without knowing where it belonged.

Very gradually, and without my recognizing it, something shifted. Process theologians say that God is inside each of us as a spirit of creative transformation. I think the Spirit was inside me. Even when I wasn’t aware of it, something was moving—gently, quietly—making space for newness without asking me to forget.

I didn’t wake up one day and feel healed. But slowly, I began to notice small openings—memories that brought not just tears but warmth, people who carried parts of Frances’s spirit without even knowing it, moments of kindness that felt like answers to prayers I hadn’t spoken.

Over time, I found that my love did have somewhere to go. It moved into how I live, how I care, how I remember. It lives in the quiet ways I honor her. In process theology, I learned that nothing is lost. Not even love that feels like it has no place. It’s held in God, remembered forever. And somehow, through that love, I keep becoming.

The grief will always be with me, too. It’s part of who I am now. But it walks beside me, not in front of me. It still aches, but it also reminds me that I loved deeply—and that love still matters.

Where is Frances Now?

People sometimes ask me where I think Frances is now. I don’t always have the words, and I try not to speak too quickly. But over time, I’ve come to find meaning in something I learned from process theology—a way of thinking about life, love, and the ongoing nature of existence.

Process theologians speak of three kinds of immortality. Each one says something true, and I find comfort in all of them.

The first is objective immortality in the world—the idea that the ones we’ve loved continue to live in us and around us. I feel this with Frances. She’s in the way I speak more gently to children now. She’s in the way I notice small things—like sunlight on a leaf, or a song drifting in through the window. She shaped who I am. And that doesn’t go away. She lives in my memory, and in the memories of others who knew and loved her. That kind of presence still matters.

The second is objective immortality in God—the idea that everything that happens is taken into the very life of God. Frances’s joy, her questions, her laughter, even her suffering—it’s all received, held, and remembered forever in the heart of the divine. Nothing is lost. Nothing disappears into nothingness. God holds it all—not as a cold archive, but as a living memory filled with feeling. That brings me peace.

And the third is subjective immortality—the idea that her journey continues in some way. That her spirit didn’t simply stop, but is still becoming, still growing, still moving toward wholeness. I don’t pretend to know exactly what this means or how it works. But something in me hopes, and even trusts, that her soul is still alive, still unfolding. Not alone, but accompanied. Not static, but gently transformed.

And I hope—quietly, deeply—that someday I will be reunited with her. Not in exactly the same way, and not in some faraway heaven with golden streets, but in a way that is real. A way that lets love speak again. I hold onto that hope—not as a certainty, but as a longing that lives close to my heart.

Each of these speaks to something I feel. Frances is with me, in me. She is with God, held forever. And she may also be somewhere I cannot see, continuing her own becoming.

That doesn’t take away the ache. But it helps me live with it. Because love, I believe, is never wasted. It continues. And so does she.

Do You Still Talk to Her?

Yes.

Not always with words. Sometimes it’s just a feeling—a pause, a breath, a look out the window where the light falls a certain way. But yes, I do talk to Frances.

Sometimes I tell her I miss her. Sometimes I tell her what I’ve been doing, or how the world is changing, or how someone made me laugh. Sometimes I ask her to stay near. To walk with me through something hard. Or I thank her for a dream I had, or for a moment when I sensed her presence.

It’s not like talking across a table. It’s more like speaking into a quiet room where love still lives.

Process theology teaches that all experience is relational. That we are never fully alone. That God receives every moment of our lives—including these conversations. And if Frances continues in some way—if her soul is still unfolding—then maybe, just maybe, she hears.

And even if she doesn’t—if it’s only the echo of my own heart—that’s enough. Because love needs to speak. And grief, too, needs to be heard.

So yes. I talk to Frances. And I think I always will.

Where is God in all of this?

I know that some people believe everything happens for a reason, and that even untimely deaths are part of God’s plan. I don’t look at things this way.

I think I’ve been, instinctively, a process theologian all my life—even before I had words for it. I believe there are plenty of things that happen in this world, to me and to others, that God cannot prevent and does not control. I believe that accidents are real. That randomness is real. And that, just like in the Bible, things can happen that are painful even to God.

I don’t fault people who see it differently. In times of grief, we all reach for what helps. Some people appeal to fate. Some to a divine plan. Some to pure chance. I’m on the chance side.

But I also believe that something real—something in the universe and also beyond it—loves us with tender care. Something that shares in our suffering, not from afar but from within. Something that understands every loss, every cry, every silence.

I believe that this something—this presence—is inside us as well. A spirit of creative transformation. It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t erase pain. But it helps us make something out of what happens. It helps us grow, when growth is possible. It helps us keep becoming.

I call that God.

And I find myself hoping, in ways I can barely understand, that this something—this God, this Love with a capital L—will somehow make all things well, whatever happens. Process theologians speak of the consequent nature of God, where all things are gathered into love and woven into a continuing beauty. This is God as a tender companion to all that is, to all who suffer, to all who grieve.

Is this real? hope so. And I trust so. But I see through a darkened glass. What I do know is that we can grow even as we grieve. And we can trust that somehow, in ways we need not understand, Love transcends our grieving.

​God and Grieving 
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Grief is not something outside the journey of life. It is part of the journey. In process theology, loss is not just a blank space or the end of something. It continues in us, shaping who we are and who we are becoming. The love we feel doesn’t disappear. It remains with us, changing form.

Process theology says that every experience, every relationship, is taken into the ongoing life of God. Nothing is forgotten. What we have loved is held—not only in our memory, but in the memory of God. In this view, God is not distant or untouched by our pain. God shares in it, feels it, and holds it with tenderness.

Phases of Grief as Part of Becoming

Grief comes in many phases. They don’t follow a strict order, and they are different for each person. But we might recognize some of them:
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• Shock and Numbness
  At first, everything feels frozen or unreal. Time slows down. The lure here is simply to breathe, to rest, to make it through. God is quiet here—present but not pushing.
• Sorrow and Longing
  Pain begins to rise. We feel the ache of absence. Tears come. And sometimes, moments of memory or beauty come, too. These are gentle signs that we are still alive, still connected. God is near, sharing in the sadness.
• Anger and Restlessness
  Questions emerge: “Why did this happen?” “What now?” Anger is not wrong. It is part of love’s protest. The lure here is toward honesty, not hiding. God welcomes this, too.
• Searching for Meaning
  Over time, we begin to piece things together. Not to solve the grief, but to live with it. To find words, images, or actions that help. The lure is toward healing—not by forgetting, but by holding what was in a new way. God is with us in this search.
• New Life Emerging
  Slowly, life begins to move forward again. Not as it was, but still real and worth living. The lure is toward future possibilities, even when we’re not sure how they’ll take shape. God invites us into new ways of loving, remembering, and becoming.

The Presence of the Divine in Grief

At each stage, we are not alone. God is not a force that drags us through grief, but a quiet companion offering lures—small possibilities, openings, helps. A moment of rest. A song. A friend’s kindness. A walk. These are ways the Spirit invites us to keep becoming, even in sorrow. And these lures can be at work in us unconsciously, without our even noticing them, too. This was the case with Frances' mother.

In process theology, grief is not something we “get over.” It becomes part of who we are. The love we carry continues to shape us. The loss is real, and so is the life that follows.
Grief is not just about what we have lost, but about the ways we continue to live in response. And in all of it, God is with us—not fixing things from afar, but walking beside us, moment by moment.