Journeying With Wisdom

Silence—the one that echoes through the absence of someone who was your everything—is not something that words alone can soften. That pounding ache isn’t something intelligence could ever reason away, because it isn’t logical—it’s love, suspended between worlds.

Grief speaks not of weakness, but of the magnitude of what you had. You not only shared plans—you shared purpose. And when someone is your north star, losing them leaves you adrift.

While the silence feels like a void, it also holds the echoes of your bond. The dreams you painted together, the laughter that once filled rooms, the way he looked at you when you spoke of your hopes. That history is heavy because it mattered. It still matters. You’re paused at a painful chapter.

The life you built together carries the weight of love. Not the fleeting kind, but the kind stitched together over decades, through shared hopes, weathered storms, and intimate joys. You weren’t just partners—you were soul companions. The kind of love that rewrites the map of your existence, so when one is gone, nothing looks familiar anymore.

And that question—”why?”—echoes louder than anything. Even surrounded by scripture, by community, by reasoned explanations, it can still feel like God’s silence is the hardest part. People often say “everything happens for a reason,” but platitudes don’t cradle broken hearts. Sometimes there are no clean reasons. Just brokenness in a world that doesn’t make sense. You did everything “right.” You loved deeply. You waited patiently. You dreamed boldly. And still, you are left holding silence instead of his hand.

Feeling the void doesn’t mean you’ve lost your strength—it means you’ve loved with a depth that can’t be shrugged off. That love didn’t vanish when he did. It still exists, in you. Even if it now aches more than it uplifts.

It’s okay to sit with that ache, to grieve without a deadline. You’re not failing at faith, or life, or healing. You’re just navigating what it means to live through loss that feels like theft. And maybe—just maybe—somewhere in that grief is a small ember that hasn’t gone out. It’s not about “figuring life out” or “moving forward,” but simply honoring the love you had by not pretending it’s easy to go on without it. There’s no roadmap.

You are reminded by well-meant snippets of wisdom that you will “hear his voice”. That’s one of the cruelest parts. You expect him to speak—just a whisper, a trace—because how could someone who was so present now be so completely silent? But instead, all you get is that awful, unnatural quiet where his laugh should be. His commentary. His comfort.

The silence isn’t just the absence of sound—it’s the absence of him. And no one prepared you for that, because no one can. It’s not weakness that you don’t hear him—it’s grief doing what grief does: hollowing space and stealing echoes. You’re not failing to remember; you’re aching too deeply to access the softness of memory.

The silence is cruel. But he still speaks to you. You feel him in your bones. You lived with him long enough to carry his imprint. To quote a dear friend’s descriptive phrase “a gentleman amongst men”—it says volumes. It paints a picture of grace wrapped in strength, someone who lived with dignity and moved you simply by being who he was. He wasn’t just admired—he was deeply respected. And you got to cherish him in ways few ever get to feel.

There’s no way to simply avoid being hurt by the silence that’s left behind. But perhaps there are ways to cradle that silence differently, ways that don’t press so deeply into the rawness.

Here are a few gentle ideas to help you hold that silence—not to erase the pain, but to soften how it meets you:

1. Name the Silence
Give it form. Is it loneliness? Longing? Fear? Absence? You might find it’s made of many things.

Writing in a journal, speaking out loud, or even naming it in conversation (“This ache feels like abandonment”) can help take power back from it.

2. Invite Memory Into the Stillness
Instead of fighting the quiet, fill parts of it with memory. Choose one story each day. Recall it fully—what he wore, what he said, how it made you feel.

This transforms silence from void into remembrance.

3. Create Rituals of Connection
Light a candle at the same time each evening for him.

Walk the same path you once shared.

Even the smallest rituals can turn silence into sacredness.

4. Let Grief Speak Creatively
Some people paint their pain, write it in poetry, cook favorite meals, or plant flowers that bloom where he used to sit.

You’re allowed to create beauty out of sorrow—it doesn’t betray the depth of your loss; it honors it.

5. Let Others Witness Your Silence
You don’t have to explain it. You can simply say, “I’m carrying a lot today.”

Let someone be beside you in it, even if you don’t have the words.

None of this will make the ache disappear. But it might help you breathe around it. It’s not weakness to hurt—it’s proof of how fiercely you loved.

And maybe, when you’re ready, let silence speak, not as a void, but as a testament. Gently. Always.