The world didn’t stop. It kept turning, kept moving forward, as though nothing had changed. But for me, everything had.

I remember stepping outside that tragic morning, my heart shattered beyond words. My neighbor stood in his yard, watering his flowers, exclaiming about what a beautiful June day it was. I could barely comprehend his words. How could anything be beautiful in this moment? My voice came out flat, almost detached from the reality crashing around me: “Well, my son just died, so I don’t know how beautiful a day it is.”

I wasn’t trying to be harsh. I was trying to grasp the weight of what had just happened — what it meant for our family and how it would change everything . . . while, for my neighbor, life carried on as usual. The stark contrast was almost too much to bear.

Grief has a way of making everything around you feel distant, like you’re watching life from behind a thick pane of glass. You see it, but you’re not part of it. You exist in a different space — one that is heavy with sorrow and filled with deafening silence.

The silence was the hardest. The absence of his cries — though I could still smell him, see his clothes, his toys, his things — swept over me like a crashing wave, ready to drown me. And, quite frankly, I secretly wanted to succumb to it. There was a tangible void, a gaping hole in my heart that I didn’t think could ever be whole again, could ever beat the same, function the same. The space where his laughter should have been . . . it all pressed in on me, suffocating and inescapable. Even my prayers felt swallowed up in the void. I would whisper my son’s name, cry out to God, but all I got in return was silence.

Had God forgotten me?

I had always believed in God’s presence, but grief has a way of testing even the deepest faith. If God was with me, why did I feel so alone? Why did my prayers seem to go unanswered? How was I even supposed to pray through this kind of pain? What does one say to the Almighty when the weight of loss makes it hard to breathe, when words fail, and all that remains are broken sobs and silent pleas?

Tears were the only words I could speak. And, yet, even in that silence, He was there.

It wasn’t in a loud, dramatic way. There was no booming voice or parting of the sky. But slowly, quietly, He met me in the stillness. It was in the way a friend sat beside me, offering no words, just presence. It was in the soft whisper of Scripture that surfaced in my heart: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18 NIV). It was in the gentle peace that, over time, softened the rawness of my sorrow.

God wasn’t absent. He was mourning with me.

Over time, God started healing the ravaged and broken pieces of my heart in a new way; a way that would never be the same — not the same perspective, not the same attitude toward time spent with loved ones, not the same way I saw problems and disappointments. God began to take my old heart and make it new, different, stronger, braver, bolder, and forever impacted.

I think of Mary and Martha when their brother Lazarus died. They had sent word to Jesus, but He didn’t come right away. When He did, Martha met Him with questions, while Mary fell at His feet in sorrow. And Jesus — before He performed the miracle, before He called Lazarus from the grave — wept.

He didn’t rush their pain. He didn’t tell them to move on. He stood in the silence of their grief and He wept with them (John 11:35). The Savior of the world, God in flesh, mourned alongside those He loved. Such grace that He does the same for us.

God doesn’t just see our grief — He knows it. He willingly gave His only Son to die for us, to suffer in our place. And while I will never fully grasp the depth of His sacrifice, I know the pain of losing an only son. That realization shifted something in me. God, in His love, bore the unbearable to redeem us, to bring hope, to ensure that death would not have the final word.

Grief isn’t something we walk through alone. Even when God feels silent, He is still present. He is in the quiet moments, in the tears we cry in the dark, in the arms of those who hold us when we have nothing left to give. He is the God who weeps with us, the God who stays.

If you are in that place of silence where the world moves on while your heart still breaks, take heart. Even in the silence, He is there. We do not grieve as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). The empty tomb tells us that death does not have the final word, that sorrow is not the end of our story. And, until the day we see our loved ones again, we can rest in this truth:

The One who conquered death is still holding us in the silence.

 

Dear (in)courage sisters, as Mother’s Day approaches, we share this guest devotion in hopes that you feel seen by God. No matter what Mother’s Day means to you, whether your expectations are met with joy or you feel the ache of disappointment, may His comfort wrap around you. Feel free to share your story in the comments — we’d love to encourage you.

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