Peace Passed Through

This morning, I mourn the loss of a dear friend.
Grief does not knock—it enters. Quietly, or suddenly. And today it arrived with a familiar ache.
I carry memories like stones in my pocket—gentle reminders of those sacred moments I was allowed to witness. Like the day when I was young, I saw the face of a loved one turn to us—not the body, but something deeper. A shadow that smiled. Not toward eternity, but toward us. As if to say, "I remember you."
Or the car accident, where confusion hung like thick fog. The eyes, not quite closed. Fear lingering in the air. And then, a moment of truth whispered into the silence:
"We are caring for your family. They are safe."
That simple promise lifted something heavy. The fear dissolved. Peace settled. Grace moved, unannounced.
In these moments, I am not just observing death. I am participating in the mystery.
Scripture gives language when my own falters:
 
“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.” — Psalm 116:15
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” — Psalm 23:4
 
There is a sacred weight in holding space for someone’s last breath. I do not speak of heaven or hell. That is not mine to decide. What I carry is presence. The kind that sees souls off gently, and anchors the living with assurance.
So today, I light a candle.
Not just for the one who passed,
but for all who need to be reminded:
There is peace,
There is grace,
And there is always room for love to pass through.