Love Him Like Jesus

The love of my life is drifting, and I can feel it—like trying to hold onto sand as it slips through my fingers. The man who once stood strong is now losing the fight to hold on for another day. The life he’s known—the one we built together, piece by precious piece—is unraveling in quiet ways that the world doesn’t always see. And I am here, holding his hand, my heart aching in the silence between the words he can no longer find. I’m searching for something to say, something to do, anything that might make it better. But the truth is, there are no magic words. No simple answers. Just a growing stillness, a creeping fog that clouds his view and pulls him deeper into the pain.

He is desperate for hope. And in the middle of his darkness, he looks to me—not for solutions, but for something more fragile and more sacred. He looks for my presence, my love, the steady warmth of someone who refuses to let go, even when he is slipping away. I don’t have the strength to fix him, to fight the battle in his mind, to erase the seizures or the sorrow—but I stay. I stay with eyes full of compassion, with arms that hold when nothing else helps, with a quiet kind of love that echoes eternity.

And that’s what I have left—to love him like Jesus. To carry him not with my own strength, but by placing him gently into the hands of the One who holds all things together. His yoke is easy, His burden is light, and in a world that feels too heavy, that promise becomes my anchor. I don’t need all the answers to all of life’s questions. I just need to remember that he is loved—deeply, endlessly, divinely. That even in his brokenness, even in his despair, even when his eyes are dim with doubt and fear, he is not alone.

So I stay. I pray. I love. Not with perfect words or polished faith, but with fierce devotion and quiet surrender. I become a reflection of grace in a storm that never seems to end. And though I am weary, though I carry my own aching questions, I choose—moment by moment, breath by breath—to love him like Jesus.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t look like healing. Sometimes it looks like holding on. Sometimes it looks like tears on the bathroom floor and whispered prayers in the dark. Sometimes it’s as simple and as sacred as staying when everything feels lost. And in that kind of love—in that quiet, unwavering presence—he sees a glimpse of God. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to hold on for one more day.