Jealous of the Angels

Grief has a way of making time feel strange. One moment, you’re standing still in disbelief, and the next, the memories rush in so vividly that you can almost hear their voice, almost feel their hand in yours. The world goes on, but your heart lingers in the spaces they used to fill. And if you’ve ever lost someone you love deeply, you know that no words ever quite fit the shape of that kind of ache.

When I hear the words, “God must need another angel around the throne tonight,” I feel that bittersweet pull between heaven and earth. Because as much as my faith tells me they are safe, whole, and surrounded by perfect peace, my heart still whispers, “But I wish they were here.”

It’s a strange tension—grateful for heaven, but longing for one more day.

I think that’s what grief really is: love with nowhere to go. It doesn’t end when the funeral is over or when the world thinks you should be “doing better.” It lingers in the quiet moments—the songs that suddenly make you cry, the empty chair at the table, the memory that catches you off guard. And in those moments, you realize that love doesn’t disappear when someone’s gone. It just changes form. It lives on inside of you.

And so, we hold on tight.

We hold on to their laughter, their kindness, their quirks, the way they made life brighter just by being in it. We hold on to the lessons they taught us, to the love they gave so freely. And even though it hurts, that love is what keeps them near.

It’s not our place to question why. That’s one of the hardest truths of faith—to trust that even in our deepest sorrow, there’s a purpose we can’t see yet. To believe that God’s ways are higher, even when they don’t make sense. To know that heaven wasn’t meant to steal from us, but to complete what we can’t yet understand.

Still, it’s okay to say it: “I’m just jealous of the angels.” Because it’s honest. It’s human. It’s the heart’s way of saying, “I miss them so much.” And God can handle that honesty. He doesn’t expect us to hide our hurt behind perfect words or tidy faith. He meets us in the brokenness, sits with us in the silence, and gently reminds us that heaven isn’t far—it’s closer than we think.

I believe that when someone we love goes home to God, they don’t leave us behind. They leave reminders everywhere—a sunset that feels like a hug, a song that suddenly brings peace, a whisper in your spirit that says, “I’m still with you.”

And maybe that’s what heaven really looks like from here—not some distant place we can’t reach, but a thin veil where love still flows freely between this life and the next.

If you’re hurting tonight—if you’ve lost someone who took a piece of your heart with them—know this: it’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be angry and lost and still trust God at the same time. Faith and sorrow can exist together; one doesn’t cancel out the other.

And when the ache feels too heavy to bear, remember this: the same God who welcomed your loved one home is holding you here. The same God who gave them peace will give you comfort. The same love that carried them into eternity is the love that will carry you through the pain.

One day, the distance will close. One day, the questions will fade. One day, we’ll see them again—not as we remember them, but as they were always meant to be: whole, radiant, laughing, free.

Until then, we hold on to what we have—the memories, the love, the faith that tells us goodbye isn’t forever. We learn to live with both the sorrow and the gratitude. We learn to smile through tears, to talk about them in present tense, because love doesn’t die—it just moves into eternity.

And when the nights feel long, when the world feels too quiet, I like to imagine them—our loved ones—gathered around the throne of heaven. No pain, no fear, no suffering. Just joy. Just peace. Just light.

And I whisper, “I’m jealous of the angels.”

Not because I want to leave this life too soon, but because I know they’re getting to see what we’re still waiting for—the face of God, the fullness of love, the beauty beyond all imagining.

Until that day, I’ll keep living in a way that honors them. I’ll love deeply. Forgive quickly. Appreciate the small things. Because that’s how they’d want me to live—fully, bravely, faithfully.

Their love lives on inside of me.
And that, I will hold on to.