The Light Sitting With You In Darkness

The phone lights up in the quiet of the evening, and suddenly you are holding a ghost. You hear that specific pitch of hope in their voice—a tone you now realize you will never hear again in this world.

It stops the breath in your chest. It makes the room feel too large and too empty all at once.

Jesus once told a man healed of blindness that the works of God might be displayed in him, even through the darkness he was born into. This grief, this specific ache of a voice lost to time, is not a mistake.

It is the display of a love that refuses to be erased by death. The light does not ask you to stop crying over the voicemail.

It sits with you in the dark, honoring the sound that once was. You are not alone in the silence; the love that spoke those words is still holding you now.