In sorrow’s stillness, love reveals itself as both wound and healing, drawing the soul through death into deeper life.
The desert of loss is not deserted. Beneath the absence, there abides a silent mercy—unseen, unprovoked, beyond resistance. Where grief unravels the will to understand, contemplation begins to breathe. There, all pleading gives way to presence. Death is not explained; it is endured until it no longer separates. Beneath the collapse of all certainties, one finds the first traces of faith restored—not belief as assent, but as resting in what endures when everything else has ended.
The heart learns to wait without asking to be consoled. Love, when it can no longer protect, becomes the simple willingness to stay. Christ enters in no vision, but in the bare courage to remain awake beside what has been lost. The false self, that anxious guardian of meaning, dissolves in the long vigil. Only then can one perceive how grace sustains even the deadened spirit—not rescuing it, but receiving it. In that receiving, life is begun again, quietly, without promise, yet whole.
Journaling prompt:
What does it mean to remain in love when love can no longer change the outcome?
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