Stillness and Sorrow
A quiet reflection
Loss and grief bring many feelings to the surface, some that cannot be expressed in words. These moments are sacred. Most when they hear the word “sacred” they hear “holy” which is not totally wrong. But it begs the question, “How can death be sacred?”
Sacredness often refers to moments that are set apart, that remind us of the wholeness of creation. Death may seem like a breakdown of this wholeness but is rather set apart to reflect on how wholeness is being made new through it. When death is at the entrance of our lives, it brings us to pause. It is like hearing the knock on the door and being jolted into silence - A moment where we ask, “Do I open the door?”
Martin Laird, the author of Into the Silent Land, writes in his final chapter:
The doorway into the silent land is a wound… Silence lays bare this wound that seems to be with us for life and brings us face to face, '“eye to eye” with what it feels like to be nothing at all… this discovery often does not feel as much like a breakthrough as it feels like a breakdown.
In moments of deep wounds, we often find ourselves in an unexpected stillness—as if life, with all its noise and motion, suddenly stops. We’re left in what I like to call white spaces—those quiet edges of a page where the words stop, and we’re left to turn it.
This image of white space is not my own but was inspired by a poet, my spiritual advisor in my Master’s program, Dr. Darcy Hansen. She often writes on these spaces and you can read her reflections at her own Substack - every instance of stasis.
However, that silence can feel unsettling—like those moments after a conversation stops when you wonder, "What’s next? Should I say something?" As Laird describes, “Silence lays bare this wound.”
It can sometimes feel awkward. Maybe because it reminds us of absence, of things left unsaid. The spaces between words or lines on a page are like the spaces where our loved ones once stood. Their absence is not meaningless but helps to define who we are and who we are becoming.
Over the past few months, my wife and her family have gone through a series of losses. In a sacred space, I offered these words of reflection and comfort that I hope might bring the same to those experiencing similar feelings.
In the words of Psalm 23, we can find comfort in the words written by David—a poem on the Divine Shepherd who walks with us through all things:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
These moments of stillness, these white spaces, are not emptiness, though it can feel like this at times. They are moments that give us room to feel, remember, and simply be. Exist. Remember our own existence.
Psalm 23 speaks to us from within that stillness. “He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.” These words aren’t just about peace; they’re about presence. They remind us that stillness can be a place of rest, a space where we are not alone but gently held by something greater than ourselves.
The Psalm goes on to say, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me;” In quiet spaces when the noise fades and we sit with our sorrow, God’s presence remains gentle, steady, and near.
As the author of Isaiah writes “By his wounds, we are healed.” Pain and suffering are not the end of the story; they lead us toward redemption and resurrection. Death is not the final word—it’s a step on the journey to a new beginning. For “Thy kingdom is an everlasting kingdom.”
So today, I urge you that we not rush to fill the silence. Let us honor the white space, knowing that it holds our memories, our love and pain, our joy and sorrow, and God’s comforting presence. In this stillness, may we find not emptiness, but rest—a reminder that even in silence, we are never truly alone.