I’ve been sitting with these thoughts since Christmas Eve, wanting to honor tender hearts.

During this season, I know several people walking through fresh grief — the loss of parents, spouses, siblings, children, grandchildren.

Others carry a different kind of ache: childhoods that hold no warm memories to return to. One person even whispered that they weren’t sure they wanted to live to see the New Year.

That kind of pain deserves reverence, not rush.

I was determined not to meet their sorrow with well-meaning clichés — “volunteer,” “adopt a family,” “stay busy,” “choose joy.” Those things can be beautiful, and I do them now. But it took me years of sitting inside my own grief before I could get there. Years before someone else’s smile softened the sting instead of feeling like salt in the wound.
So I don’t beat people over the head with happiness.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can give is not advice, not solutions, not silver linings — but presence. To sit. To be quiet. To resist the urge to fix. To simply watch and wait with someone.

Scripture tells us:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

Notice what it doesn’t say.
It doesn’t say God rushes the brokenhearted.
It doesn’t say He lectures them into joy.
It says He is close.

Jesus did come to bring joy to the world — but grief, like the ocean, comes in waves. And the return to joy doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in stages.

That truth surprised me again while watching Disney’s “Inside Out 2”. When Joy tried to take over too quickly — before the main character was ready — it didn’t heal her. It pushed her deeper into despair. What she needed wasn’t forced positivity. She needed permission to sit with sorrow and memory for a while without being rushed toward “better.”

Sometimes joy doesn’t need to be summoned.
It needs to be allowed to come back when it’s ready.

If this season finds you heavy, please hear this:
You are not failing because you aren’t cheerful.
You are not weak because you’re tired.
You are not faithless because joy hasn’t returned yet.

Jesus is close to the tenderhearted — not waiting on the other side of your healing, but sitting with you right in the middle of it.
And sometimes, that quiet companionship is the most sacred gift of all.

Can we pray?
Jesus,
You who are close to the brokenhearted,
draw near to every tender soul reading this.

For those carrying fresh grief,
sit with them in the quiet where words fall short.
For those whose memories ache instead of comfort,
hold them without asking them to explain.

Guard them from the pressure to perform joy
before it has found its way home again.
Give permission for tears, for pauses, for breathing slowly.

Where sorrow comes in waves,
be the steady presence that does not leave.
And when joy is ready to return — even in small, fragile ways —
let it arrive gently, without force or fear.

Until then, be enough.
Be near.
Be kind to the tenderhearted.

Amen.

For Shelby. Heaven makes noise a 3 a.m. just for you.

Love, Chelle