Before the Resurrection: Grief, Loss, and Hope Revisited

Hello, I’m Tiffany, your resident town hermit. Welcome to my fellowship—a haven where you’re free to talk about taboo subjects you can’t anywhere else. Learn more about The Untangling here, or subscribe to never miss a post.

• My essay, "How to Love Your Mother," was published by Chicago Story Press. You can read it here.
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Dear Inklings,

I have sat down to write a letter many times over the past few weeks, and found myself incapable of bringing to the surface what is churning within me. Is still churning, if I'm being honest. To be fair to myself, I've been deep in edits for The Constellation of Forgotten Things, to the point where the words are blending together into nonsensical jumbles.

Aside from that, though, my grandmother died a few days after my last letter in January—the one who helped raise me. This happened in the midst of other personal turmoil, and the political upheaval in the U.S. It has left me weary. So weary.

Oh, it has been hard to write. Every time I thought I was resurfacing, grief would overwhelm me again, or another bout of bad news would hit, and I'd want to cocoon myself in a tiny cave of my own making and shut the whole world out.

So, forgive me; this is far from a polished essay.

And yet, in spite of it all, I've caught glimmers of God's goodness and love that remind me of His enduring presence—I don't say that as a pat, Christian-y response. If you've been reading long enough, you know I hate that—but because despite my own resistance to so-called providential signs, they came for me anyway.

Like on a night grief was hitting me hard, when I was crying to God how much I missed Ren, I asked Him to make it rain, because Ren always said he'd visit me in the rain. I fell asleep, but when I woke again, it was pouring. It rained for the next four days—in the middle of a heat wave.

Like after one of those sleepless nights on a day I didn't want to face, when a friend texted me out of the blue, saying, "I just have it on my mind to pray for you, so know that I'm praying for you today," and I thought of how God could have nudged anyone, but specifically chose someone who hadn't directly texted me since November to send me that message, just to show me.

I remember, then, that since May 25, 2021, there has never been a day without a cloud in the sky. Yes, even in sunny San Diego. And I think, this must be a miracle, because Ren said he would send me clouds if he died, and I'd said then it'll be rare because San Diego skies are always impossibly blue. He said, "That's how you'll know it's me." And I know, because I have watched for a cloud every single day since he died, and there has always been one. For five years. Always.

I know all these things don't soften the ache of loss. Neither does time. Because grief is the rupture that we knit ourselves around, not quite back together. Because it's been long enough now that I know there are days I feel "fine," will go about my business like I don't have a great gaping hole within me, then the hole will suddenly feel like it's spread itself from within, until it's surfacing through the facade and consuming me.

But sometimes, there are these glimmers that pull me through from day to day. I can remember the boy who loved pine trees and fluffy white clouds on windy days, who wanted to be an architect and build beautiful buildings of art. The boy who gave so much to others that they still remember him, no matter how long or short a time they knew him. The boy who would put pack lemon slices into his water until it was more lemon juice than water, who loved ceviche and Pepsi and McDonald's. Whose favourite colours were green and brown because they're colours of nature. The boy who used to ask my husband for help on his computer science tests and tell him he was going to make us coconut cookies when he moved in. Who loved elephants because of how deeply they bonded.

The thing is, Ren's life and death will always be inextricably intertwined with injustice in my mind—abuse of a voiceless, minority child, lost and invisible in the fissures of a broken system that should have protected him—which is why the open brutality toward immigrant families and murder of minority individuals has landed especially heavily on me. It's not only the actions of the perpetrators themselves, however, but the reactions of society. That may, in fact, be even more distressing to me.

Once, I asked Ren why the police weren't putting in more effort into his case. He responded, dejectedly, as if he was long used to it, "Because they don't care. I'm not white or a girl or straight."

As I write those words, I feel—not so much rage, as I did then, but sorrow. There's a famous quote that says, "A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic." When I was younger and more idealistic, I thought that if people just knew someone who was suffering, knew someone's real, individual story, they had to care. The reality of injustice and broken systems, of indifference and dismissal had to shatter a person's apathy. It would compel them to take action.

I know better now.

Yet, I'm unwilling to relinquish hope. Despair is easy. Hope takes courage. I've allowed despair to rule my life for so much of it; I want to choose a different way.

I've been rereading a few classics that somehow converged on this theme of oppression. Les Misérables, for instance, is centered around it completely. It tells horrifying story after horrifying story of victims of social injustice: Fantine, who dies because of it. Jean Valjean, who never knows true freedom. Cosette, who lives under the shadow of these two people. There is such darkness in this book, and yet in the midst of the darkness, goodness. A single individual, perhaps, who holds out his hand to the wretched: Monseigneur Bienvenu (the bishop). His act of mercy transforms Valjean from a hardened man into someone who also extends mercy.

The man's eyes widened in astonishment. "Really? You knew me by name?"
"Yes," replied the bishop," by the name of 'Brother.'"

No conditions.

On the other side was Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights, whose experience of racism and brutality turns him into a sadistic, vengeful man who wreaks misery on two generations. He is, of course, responsible for his choices and actions, but the book begs the question: "Are monsters born or made?"

Les Misérables would say society is partially responsible for Heathcliff. Consider what Valjean says: "My friends, remember this: there are no such things as bad plants or bad men. There are only bad farmers."

After all, humans don't live in isolation, but intertwined. We are responsible for ourselves, yes, but also for each other.

Returning to the analogy of the bad farmers, I keep wondering how Ren's story could have been different if he'd been in the hands of just one good farmer. Ah, I know I venture into dangerous waters of regret when I do this. But there are still far too many like Ren yet living.

For them, I fight on.

It is the season of Lent. I will never forget what my former boss at Hope for San Diego said about this period of time: Lent is a season for lament; we are often so eager to have a tidy resolution and jump straight to celebration that we don't take time to mourn. God, in his wisdom, makes space for both. Before the resurrection, there was death.

Ren's death was preventable. Indifference, prejudice, and systemic failures killed him. I could be enraged. And I am, sometimes. Rage itself is not enough. Ren embodied kindness. It's what he is still known for. Because of that, I temper rage with compassion. I cling to hope instead of giving in to helpless inaction.

I heard a pastor say recently: "Your posture toward those who are dismissed will reflect your posture towards God."

The bishop in Les Misérables saw one man, one outcast that no one else would even look in the eye or address with dignity—and called him "Brother." We can't change the system in an instant, but we all know one person we can show welcome to. Just one person. Just one child.

That is enough.

Mary Tabor's Who By Fire book launch with Kimberly Warner!!

Both of these women are so badass in the most amazing ways. I feel so privileged to be able to meet them in person. I also got to meet Inkling, Nisha Mody and new friend and film-maker, Lili. 🩵 A beautiful evening with like-minded souls.

The next day was one of catching up with friends and my beloved godsisters. I don't care much for food (blasphemy to my best friend, who plans her days around meals and loves to cook), but these friendships and moments of connection? They nourish me and give me hope.

I may have gotten deathly ill again on the long road back home (six hours through horrendous traffic because of two horrendous car accidents) that I'm still recovering from, but my heart is full. (Also, this is my time to shout that yes! I do get out of the house! Yes, I am alive (sort of), and yes, I do have friends (my eight-year-old asked me this a few weeks ago, even though he's definitely met many of my friends before, but he also has the memory of a goldfish, so it's ok)!

• San Diego Writers Festival is on March 28. It was a lovely experience last year, and it's completely free. It was the first time I realised what a vibrant literary and art society San Diego has, and I want to be as much a part of it as I can.
• My guest post about Franny and Zooey is coming up on Ford Knows Books by Troy Ford on March 16. I've waxed poetic about this book before, and you'll get to read it again there. Be sure to subscribe to Troy's newsletter, where he shares his own publishing journey and about books.

Thanks for sticking with me, even when my writing schedule is wack. Until next time. Leave a comment or reply to this email. I'd love to hear from you.

With Love,

The short story collection I wrote with Ren is launching on September 15, 2026 and will only run until October 1, 2026. Sign up to be notified when the project goes live so you don't miss this limited campaign window.

About Me: I’m Tiffany, a literary fantasy, and memoir author. My writing has been published by Chicago Story Press and San Diego Writers, Inc. I’ve been writing this publication since 2023. Order my books here or here.