The Deeper the Grief, the Deeper the Love

I’m not here to wish the pain away. I used to think that was the goal—to get through the ache, to outrun it, to pray it gone. But now I understand that some pain is sacred. Some pain means something. And maybe it’s not meant to be erased, but embraced—held gently, like the fragile evidence of a love so deep it left a mark that time can’t wash away.

So, Jesus, please—just be with me ‘til it’s gone.

Sit with me in the ache. Don’t rush the healing, don’t quiet the tears, just stay here with me in the middle of it all. Because what I’ve learned is that the hardest moments are not just spaces of loss—they’re also holy ground. You meet me here. You sit in the silence with me. You don’t need me to be strong; You just need me to be honest.

Pain has a way of stripping away what doesn’t matter, of revealing what truly does. It teaches you that love and loss aren’t opposites—they’re reflections of one another. You can’t have one without risking the other. And when you’ve truly loved, when your soul has connected with another’s in a way words can’t define, losing them—or even just the idea of them—creates a space so wide inside you that it feels unbearable. But that space? It’s proof. Proof that love was real.

I can finally see the difference between having love, having loss, and having nothing at all. Having love means you’ve been changed forever. It’s not always easy—it can break you open—but it makes you more. It softens you, humbles you, teaches you compassion in ways comfort never could. Having loss means you’ve loved deeply enough to feel the absence, to know what it means to have something worth grieving. But having nothing at all—that’s what I fear most. Because that would mean I never felt the kind of love that moved me, shaped me, or taught me how to see the world through someone else’s eyes.

So Jesus, give me strength—not to fight the pain, but to embrace it. Help me to hold it like a trophy I’ve won, not because I enjoy the suffering, but because it means I lived. Because it means I loved. Because it means my heart was brave enough to open, knowing full well it might one day break.

The deeper the grief, the deeper the love. Those words hold a truth I used to run from, but now I see the beauty in them. Grief is love’s echo—it’s what remains when the world changes but your heart hasn’t caught up yet. It’s the proof that what you had mattered. That it was real enough to leave fingerprints on your soul.

There’s a holiness in grief when you start to see it for what it is—not punishment, but the price of love. The ache doesn’t mean something’s gone wrong; it means something was so right that its absence now feels unbearable. And if I let it, that pain can become something redemptive. It can stretch me. Deepen me. Grow me closer to the heart of God.

Because when everything is stripped away—when the world quiets and I’m left alone with my thoughts—I realize that love never truly leaves. It changes form. It transforms from presence to memory, from laughter to legacy, from physical closeness to spiritual connection. And somehow, in ways I can’t explain, it lives on.

I’ve learned that embracing the pain doesn’t mean giving up—it means giving in. It means surrendering to the truth that healing and hurting can exist at the same time. It means letting the tears fall, not as signs of weakness, but as sacred acknowledgments of what once was beautiful.

And through it all, Jesus stands beside me—steady, compassionate, unhurried. He doesn’t tell me to stop crying. He doesn’t tell me to move on. He reminds me that it’s okay to feel it all. To grieve deeply, because I’ve loved deeply. To mourn, because my heart was capable of something beautiful.

There’s a strange kind of beauty in the brokenness when you start to see it through His eyes. The pain that once felt like punishment becomes a passage. The tears that once felt like failure become rivers that cleanse the soul. The ache becomes a testimony—a story that says, “I loved so much, it hurt to lose it.”

So now, when I feel the weight of sorrow pressing down, I try not to push it away. I close my eyes, breathe deep, and whisper, “Be with me, Jesus.” Because I’ve realized that peace doesn’t come from the absence of pain—it comes from the presence of Him.

And in His presence, I don’t have to hide the ache. I can bring it, raw and trembling, to the foot of the cross. Because He knows what it feels like to love and to lose. He knows what it feels like to grieve deeply. He carried both pain and purpose in His hands. And somehow, through His own suffering, He turned pain into redemption.

So maybe this ache in my chest isn’t a wound to close, but a reminder to cherish. Maybe it’s not something to rush through, but something to honor. Because love this deep deserves to be remembered.

And one day, when the sharp edges of grief begin to soften and I can look back without breaking, I’ll see that the pain wasn’t wasted. It was shaping me. Refining me. Teaching me to love with open hands, to live with a tender heart, to hold gratitude in one hand and sorrow in the other—and to find grace in both.

So I won’t wish the pain away. I’ll learn from it. I’ll hold it gently. I’ll let it remind me of what was beautiful, of what still is. Because if grief means I’ve loved deeply, then I will wear it with honor. I’ll carry it not as a chain, but as a crown. Not as proof of loss, but as evidence of love.

The deeper the grief, the deeper the love. And in that truth, I find peace. Because the pain will fade, but love—real love—never will.