When the Light Grows Tired: Sitting With Goodbye Before It Comes
When the Light Grows Tired: Sitting With Goodbye Before It Comes
Hello beautiful souls,
Today I am writing from a tender place. The kind of place
where your chest feels heavy and your thoughts move slower because your heart
is carrying something it doesn’t want to hold. If you’ve ever stood on the edge
of an anticipated goodbye, then you understand the sacred ache behind these
words.
Come sit with me for a moment.
Let’s talk about love, loss, and the fragile thread that holds
this life together.
This week, I received news that shook me.
A very dear friend of mine—someone I have known for over
twenty years—is going into hospice. She was diagnosed last year with colon
cancer. We hoped. We prayed. We believed she would beat it. After all, she had
already survived breast cancer as a teenager. She has been a fighter for as
long as I’ve known her.
But now the chemo has stopped.
When I spoke to her recently, she shared how sick she has
been. Sleeping most of the day. Losing weight. Struggling just to get through
the hours. Chemotherapy may be life-saving for some, but it is also incredibly
harsh on the body. As she described what she has endured, I could hear the
exhaustion in her voice. You can tell when someone is physically drained. You
can feel when their spirit is tired.
I don’t have many close friends. The ones I do have are
treasures. And she has been one of mine.
Tomorrow, my son and I are going to visit her. I want her to
see how much he has grown. I need to see her. And yet, if I’m honest, I am
already grieving.
As I sat in the bathroom crying, my sadness stretched beyond
just my own heart. I thought of her husband. Her children. Her grandchildren.
Her siblings. The ripple effect of one life. The quiet spaces she will one day
leave behind.
There is something uniquely painful about knowing goodbye is
coming.
And today, I want to gently sit in that space with you.
The Fragility of Life and the Gift of Time
When someone is fighting for their life, everything else feels
smaller.
We all carry stress. We all have responsibilities. We all
navigate problems. But when you look at someone who is literally battling for
breath, for strength, for another sunrise—it shifts your perspective.
It reminds you that life is not guaranteed.
Not tomorrow.
Not next week.
Not even later today.
We often live as if we have unlimited time. We postpone
difficult conversations. We delay forgiveness. We assume there will be another
holiday, another birthday, another random Tuesday to say, “I love you.”
But life is fragile.
The older I get, the more I realize that the real currency of
this world is not money, not titles, not accomplishments. It is time.
And when you have walked alongside someone for over two
decades—through laughter, memories, seasons of growth and change—that time
becomes sacred. It becomes evidence of love.
My friend has always been one of the kindest souls I have
known. A gentle heart. A quick smile. A humor that could soften even tense
moments. She has endured so many health challenges, yet she remained soft. That
kind of resilience—the kind that keeps your spirit tender—is rare.
The time I have had with her has been a gift. Even if it does
not feel long enough.
If someone has been on your heart lately, consider that a
nudge. Reach out. Send the text. Make the call. Say the words.
Time is a holy gift. Use it like you know it is.
The Ache of Anticipatory Grief
There is a specific kind of sorrow that comes before someone
leaves.
It is called anticipatory grief.
It is grieving someone who is still here.
You watch the light dim. You see their body grow weaker. You
hear the weariness in their voice. You prepare yourself for what you know is
coming, yet you still quietly hope for a miracle.
I have wrestled with a question in my own heart: Is it harder
when death comes suddenly, or when it comes slowly through illness?
A sudden loss can leave you in shock. Words unsaid. Hugs never
given. Conversations unfinished.
A terminal illness gives you time—but it also makes you
witness the fading. You see the strength diminish. You see the spark grow
faint. And that, too, is heartbreaking.
I am not sure there is an “easier.” Grief reshapes you either
way.
What makes this season especially heavy is the helplessness. I
wish I could cook her favorite meal. I wish I could sit beside her and make her
laugh. I wish I could absorb some of her discomfort so she wouldn’t have to
carry it alone.
But there is very little I can do.
And feeling powerless is uncomfortable.
We live in a world that encourages fixing. Solving.
Strategizing. But love does not always look like intervention. Sometimes love
looks like presence. Like sitting quietly beside someone. Like holding a hand.
Like being willing to share sacred silence.
Tomorrow, I will walk into that room. I want to be brave. I
don’t want her to see the tears. But she knows me. She will likely see what I
try to hide.
Maybe bravery is not the absence of tears.
Maybe bravery is simply showing up anyway.
When Logic and the Heart Disagree
Inside of me, there is a quiet debate happening.
The logical part of my mind says: When this is over, she will
no longer suffer. There will be no more chemo. No more nausea. No more physical
exhaustion. No more pain.
Logically, I understand that sometimes death is a release from
suffering.
But my heart?
My heart aches.
My heart already misses her.
This is the tension of being human. We can understand
something intellectually and still feel crushed emotionally. Both realities can
coexist.
Faith reminds us that this life is not the end. That there is
eternity beyond what we can see. That God holds our days and knows the number
of them.
And yet, faith does not cancel grief.
Jesus wept. Even knowing resurrection was coming, He still
wept.
Grief is not a lack of faith. It is evidence of love.
As I sit with these emotions, I am trying to allow truth and
tenderness to live side by side. I can trust that God is sovereign and still
cry in my bathroom. I can believe she will be free from suffering and still
dread the empty chair at the table.
If you are walking through something similar, please hear this
gently:
You are allowed to feel it all.
You are allowed to be sad.
You are allowed to question.
You are allowed to feel anger.
You are allowed to hope.
God is not intimidated by your emotions. He sits with you in
them.
Affirmations for the Tender Seasons
If you are carrying grief today—anticipated or
unexpected—breathe these in slowly:
• I am allowed to feel my emotions fully and honestly.
• My grief is a reflection of my love.
• God is present with me in sorrow.
• I can hold hope and heartbreak at the same time.
• I release what I cannot control into divine hands.
• Love continues, even when a life changes form.
Bible Verse
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves
those who are crushed in spirit.” — Book of Psalms 34:18
There is deep comfort in knowing that brokenheartedness does
not push God away—it draws Him near. In the moments when your chest tightens
and your thoughts spiral into “what happens next,” He is not distant.
He is close.
Closer than fear.
Closer than sorrow.
Closer than goodbye.
🎵 Song of
the Day
“As Real As You and Me” by Rihanna
This song captures the uncomfortable truth we often avoid:
life is fragile, and death is real. The lyric—“There could be a freak
accident… There could be a fatal disease… It’s as real as you and me”—echoes
exactly how I feel right now.
We don’t like to think about it. We don’t like to say it out
loud. But the reality is that every one of us will one day step into the next
chapter.
While we cannot control when that day comes, we can control
how we love in the meantime.
Let this song be a gentle reminder: do not waste the
opportunity to say what matters. Don’t assume you will have another chance.
Speak the love. Extend the grace. Offer the forgiveness.
Regret is heavier than vulnerability.
Final Thoughts
Tomorrow, I will walk into a room and see my friend.
I don’t know how long we have left. I don’t know what the
coming days will hold for her family. My mind wants timelines and clarity. My
heart simply wants one more moment.
If this season has reminded me of anything, it is this:
Love the people in front of you.
Say what matters.
Show up while you can.
Do not wait for perfect conditions to express care.
Life is fragile. But love is powerful.
And even when a body grows tired, love remains.
Always.
With you in the tender places,
Angel 🤍
If these words met you where you are, consider sharing them.
Someone else may be quietly carrying grief today. You are also invited to
explore the archive—there may be another message waiting for you at just the
right time.
Divine timing cannot be rushed. We are simply invited to
remain open, receptive, and aligned with what God is unfolding.
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