There’s a certain kind of silence that only grief knows.
It comes after the funeral…
After the phone calls stop…
After the casserole dishes are returned…
After you scroll through old photos and realize—
They’re not coming back.
We’ve all heard the phrases:
“He’s in a better place.”
“At least she’s not suffering anymore.”
“Time heals all wounds.”
Maybe those words helped once. Maybe they even still do. But if I’m being honest—sometimes they just echo into the hollow spaces where our loved ones used to be.
The truth is, loss creates an absence nothing else fills.
You don’t replace a father.
You don’t fill in the space where your brother used to sit.
You don’t un-hear their laugh, un-see their face, or forget what it felt like when they were still here.
And maybe we’re not supposed to.
Maybe grief isn’t something to “get over,” but something we carry with us. A weight we learn to walk with. A quiet reminder that love was real.
But even in that ache, something holy remains.
A whisper that we’re not alone in this.
Jesus wept.
Even knowing He’d raise Lazarus… He wept.
Because He felt the sting of absence.
Because He loved.
So if you’re grieving right now, I won’t try to fix it.
I won’t offer shallow comfort or tidy answers.
I’ll just say this:
I see you.
I feel it too.
And even in the darkness, God is not absent.
You might not feel Him right now, but He’s there.
In the arms of a friend.
In the tears that fall without shame.
In the memories that make you smile through the pain.
In the silence that speaks louder than words.
Grief is love with nowhere to go.
So maybe today, we let it sit with us a while.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
Troy P Zehnder 