I’m not exactly sure where the phrase “practice what you preach” came from (the internet tells me maybe Matthew 23:3 or maybe “The Merchant of Venice” or maybe a translation of a phrase from the philosopher Seneca), but certainly the phrase hits home more closely to pastors than perhaps anyone else.

When it comes to responding to grief and loss, I encourage my congregants to not gloss over things. Grief is real. It hurts like hell, of course, but avoiding grief or believing that you have a superficial faith because you grieve aren’t usually healthy responses. It would be nice if I practiced what I preached.

We took our oldest child to college for her freshman year last weekend. It had been looming all summer, of course, but I didn’t really come to grips with it until a few days before we actually went. And even then I think I subconsciously kept telling myself, “It will be just like taking her to camp!” But as we unpacked her things and helped her get settled in her dorm room, it dawned on me. No, it’s not like taking her to camp.

As my wife and I drove home, I felt a strange and unpleasant sensation: grief. I had been doing all the things I told people not to do. Avoiding it. Downplaying the pain of it. I could tell myself (and I have) things like, “It’s not like she’s leaving FOREVER…She’s only 3.5 hours away…There’s always FaceTime.” That’s all true, of course, but this is not a small thing. It’s not just going to college. It’s a rite of passage. It is moving to independence and adulthood. It’s a letting go and praying and hoping that you haven’t screwed up as a parent too badly. And it’s walking by an empty bedroom, which correlates too aptly into the emptiness that the rest of us feel.

I have prayed many prayers with people over the years who deal with loss and now I pray the prayers for me. I pray that I can practice what I preach: Name the grief, allow God to be with me in the midst of it, and keep a close eye on what new thing will come out of it. And giving myself the space to miss my daughter terribly.