There is a tenderness that lives in stillness, a kind of love that does not rush to fix, explain, or perform. It is the love that simply stays. When someone is walking through a storm, our words may scatter like leaves in the wind, yet our quiet nearness can become a refuge stronger than walls.
📖 “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” — Romans 12:15 (NKJV)
"When someone is walking through a storm, let your silent presence be a shelter the wind cannot breach - a steady nearness that says I am here without making their pain perform. Sit beside them the way mountains keep watch over valleys: unwavering, unhurried, unafraid of thunder. Offer ordinary kindness--boil water, hold the umbrella, place a blanket, keep time with their breath- and let the hush between you speak the oldest language of care. Do not rename their clouds or argue with the rain; become warmth, witness and ground. In such gentleness, grief loosens its grip, fear remembers it can exhale, and the heart relearns that it can be both broken and beloved while the sky works out its weather. Your presence, unpolished, consistent, sincere, becomes the anchor under their waves, the small light that makes darkness navigable. And when the storm passes, they will not recall perfect advice; they will remember that you stayed, that your quiet never flinched, and that, without a million empty words, you helped their spirit trust the light again." - Steve De'lano Garcia
Don't ever underestimate the gift of the ministry of presense.
There is a tenderness that lives in stillness, a kind of love that does not rush to fix, explain, or perform. It is the love that simply stays. When someone is walking through a storm, our words may scatter like leaves in the wind, yet our quiet nearness can become a refuge stronger than walls.
📖 “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” — Romans 12:15 (NKJV)
Lately as I sat with my grief, I have been reminded of how uneasy we are with tears. When grief visits, even the kindest hearts often reach for quick comfort — “She’s in a better place,” “She’s with the Lord now.” Though true and spoken with good intentions, these words can sometimes brush too lightly over a heart that longs to have its ache acknowledged. They can make us feel guilty for needing to cry and be comforted. Few know how to simply sit in silence beside sorrow, to hold space for holy tears.
Grief comes in waves and hospice will tell you it takes as long as it takes. You can’t speed it up or reason it away.
Tears and silence make people uncomfortable. Yet Jesus never avoided them. When Jesus stood beside Mary and Martha at Lazarus’ tomb, He did not immediately offer a sermon. He wept. His tears were not weakness; they were divine compassion, the presence of God sharing human grief. That is the heart of true ministry: not to rush someone out of their valley but to sit with them until they remember the Shepherd is still near. The Son of God did not silence their grief with theology; He sanctified it with His presence. That moment still teaches us the sacred art of simply being the ministry of presence. When words fall short, love can still stay
Sometimes, all that is required of us is to sit silently with the wounded — to be there, to share Christ’s love and comfort without needing to speak. The ministry of presence is not about perfect words; it is about faithful nearness. It is what happens when we offer warmth, witness, and ground, becoming an anchor under another’s waves.
💡Reflection:
Who around you may need the gift of your quiet nearness rather than your answers? 🤔
Can you let your heart be a shelter for another’s tears? 🤔
🎺 Affirmation:
My silence can carry Christ’s comfort; my presence can become His embrace.
🙌Prayer:
Lord, teach me to bring comfort without rushing to conclusions. Help me to honour another’s pain the way You honoured ours with presence, not performance. Lord, teach me to carry Your peace into other people’s pain. Let my silence be filled with Your presence, my patience with Your compassion and my stillness speak of Your steadfast love. May I become a quiet anchor in someone’s storm, reflecting Your steadfast love.
In Jesus’ Name, Amen.
Tuesday, 7 October 2025
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