It’s been a while since I’ve shared here. Life has a way of pulling us in many directions, and sometimes the writing pauses while we tend to what’s right in front of us. But as I’ve been watching the turmoil in our nation and across the world this past week, my heart has been stirred again to put words on a page.
Everywhere I look, people are carrying burdens heavier than words can express. My heart is especially drawn to those walking through loss. And if I’m honest, much of what I carry right now feels hollow, shaded with a kind of melancholy I can’t quite put down. Perhaps that’s part of why I return to writing—to give shape to what sits heavy inside.
I am not a first responder—those men and women step into crises with a bravery that humbles me. My place feels different. I see myself as someone standing quietly in the background, waiting for the moment when the noise settles and the grief begins to surface. That’s often when the loneliness sets in, when reality becomes undeniable, and when people most need to know they are not alone.
But waiting is not easy. The hollowness in me often presses to be filled by doing something—anything—that might ease the sorrow I see around me. Yet grief doesn’t move at my pace. It comes in waves of silence and ache, often when least expected. The most loving response isn’t to rush in with answers, but to sit with the discomfort of not being able to fix what’s broken.
What I bring in those moments is presence. I offer what I call being a “heart with ears”—a willingness to listen without judgment, without analysis, without interruption. Sometimes what people need most is not advice or explanation, but someone who will simply stay with them in the silence, even when that silence feels heavy.
The kind of loss many are facing right now—whether in our communities or across the globe—can be overwhelming. It stirs emotions that are messy and hard to contain: sorrow that feels bottomless, helplessness that lingers, anger that simmers just below the surface. All of these responses are part of grief’s language. None of them are wrong. They don’t need to be explained away. They need to be acknowledged.
I don’t step into this work untouched. My willingness to be present with others comes from knowing my own valleys. I know what it feels like to have life split wide open, to carry a hollow inside that words don’t seem to reach. That personal landscape of loss shapes every conversation I hold, every tear I witness, and every silence I honor.
So while I may not be the one who rushes to the scene, I will be there in the days, weeks, and months after—ready to walk alongside, to listen, to hold space. Because grief doesn’t end when the headlines fade or when the casseroles stop coming. It lingers. It reshapes. It leaves both emptiness and unexpected beauty in its wake. And in those tender, ordinary moments, people need presence more than platitudes.
It feels good to return to writing, though it feels tender too. The hollowness remains, but I’ve come to see it as part of love’s echo—proof that what was lost mattered deeply. Writing again helps me hold both the ache and the hope together.
This weekend, I took an afternoon stroll—no agenda other than to breathe, to notice the light through the trees, and to let nature remind me that beauty still exists in ordinary places. As I walked, I was reminded that Jesus meets me even there, in the quiet, in the hollow spaces, in the gentle gifts of creation. His presence doesn’t erase the ache, but it steadies me with hope. Grief can leave us feeling emptied out, but it cannot take away the promise that He is with us.
Perhaps that is grief’s greatest lesson: it teaches us how to live with contradictions. We carry sorrow and beauty, despair and resilience, silence and presence. And at the center of it all, there is Jesus—holding both the brokenness and the hope, reminding us that we are never alone.
