“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” — Hebrews 4:16
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This is my first Mother’s Day without my mom, and her absence carries a weight I feel in everything—in the quiet moments, in the memories that arrive uninvited, in the spaces she once filled so naturally and completely. Today, that loss feels especially sharp, its depth reaching places words can only begin to express.What do we truly know of death except in contrast to life? It is through death that we begin to understand what life really is. Death is absence. There are no hands to hold, no arms to embrace—no warmth in nearness. No eyes to meet, no voice to speak, to sing, or to comfort. No ears to listen, no shoulders to lean on, no footsteps walking beside you. There is only a void where someone once was.
Death is a strange opponent—one that gives nothing, yet takes everything. It takes the love we once knew, the connections we shared, the bonds we formed, the struggles we overcame, the tears we dried, the laughter we enjoyed, the conversations—even the arguments. It takes it all. What remains are memories—fragile, fleeting reflections of who someone once was. And yet, they are what we hold onto.
There is no pain quite like death—and Jesus knows it. When he stood before the grief of Mary and Martha at the tomb of Lazarus, he was not indifferent. He was deeply moved, troubled in spirit. He entered into their sorrow. The shortest verse in Scripture says it plainly: “Jesus wept.” In that moment, he was not only expressing compassion—he was sharing in the reality of human grief, knowing that he too would face death at the cross.
In the loss of a loved one, we are not alone in our suffering. Jesus is not distant; he is present and deeply acquainted with our pain. Therefore, we can come to him with confidence, trusting that he understands and offers mercy and grace in our time of need (Hebrews 4:15–16).
On this Mother’s Day, I remember my mom with a love that does not end with absence. Grief remains, but so does hope—for those who die in Christ will rise again.
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What do we truly know of death except in contrast to life? It is through death that we begin to understand what life really is. Death is absence. There are no hands to hold, no arms to embrace—no warmth in nearness. No eyes to meet, no voice to speak, to sing, or to comfort. No ears to listen, no shoulders to lean on, no footsteps walking beside you. There is only a void where someone once was.
Death is a strange opponent—one that gives nothing, yet takes everything. It takes the love we once knew, the connections we shared, the bonds we formed, the struggles we overcame, the tears we dried, the laughter we enjoyed, the conversations—even the arguments. It takes it all. What remains are memories—fragile, fleeting reflections of who someone once was. And yet, they are what we hold onto.
There is no pain quite like death—and Jesus knows it. When he stood before the grief of Mary and Martha at the tomb of Lazarus, he was not indifferent. He was deeply moved, troubled in spirit. He entered into their sorrow. The shortest verse in Scripture says it plainly: “Jesus wept.” In that moment, he was not only expressing compassion—he was sharing in the reality of human grief, knowing that he too would face death at the cross.
In the loss of a loved one, we are not alone in our suffering. Jesus is not distant; he is present and deeply acquainted with our pain. Therefore, we can come to him with confidence, trusting that he understands and offers mercy and grace in our time of need (Hebrews 4:15–16).
On this Mother’s Day, I remember my mom with a love that does not end with absence. Grief remains, but so does hope—for those who die in Christ will rise again.
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