The Lantern by the River

The first time Amelia visited the river after Jonah’s passing, the world felt hollow. The trees still swayed, the water still glided over the smooth stones, and the sky stretched wide above her—but everything felt muted, as if grief had drained the color from life.

She clutched a small lantern in her hands, a gift from Jonah on their last anniversary. It was etched with the words “Light will always find you.”

He had always loved the way light danced in the darkness, how even the faintest flicker of a candle could hold back the night.

But now, darkness was all she knew.

People told her to pray. To trust in God’s plan. That Jonah was in a better place.

But what about here? What about the space he left behind—the empty chair at the dinner table, the unanswered text messages, the quiet hum of loneliness stretching between her waking moments and restless nights?

She had spent the past few months avoiding everything that reminded her of him—his side of the closet, their favorite coffee shop, even the playlist they once danced to in their kitchen.

And she had avoided God too.

Not because she didn’t believe He was there—but because she was angry.

Angry that He had taken someone she loved so much.

Angry that He had let her hurt this deeply.

She felt forgotten…

Unimportant.

Like her pain didn’t matter to Him.

Or maybe… she was just waiting.

Waiting for Him to show up in the silence.

Waiting to feel seen again.

The Breaking Open

Grief is a peculiar thing. Some days, it feels like drowning—like the weight of loss is pulling you under with no promise of air. Other days, it’s a quiet ache, like a wound that has scabbed over but still stings when touched.

For Amelia, faith had always been a quiet comfort, a steady undercurrent in her life. But when Jonah died, faith felt like a cruel betrayal.

One evening, as she sat by the river, she whispered a question she never thought she would say out loud:

"Where are You?"

The words felt brittle, spoken into the fading light.

And yet, something inside her cracked open.

In that moment, she remembered Jonah’s voice—calm and steady—on nights when she spiraled into anxiety.

Grief has a way of emptying us. But in that emptiness, sometimes, there’s space for something new.

The Lantern’s Glow

Amelia didn’t find faith again in a grand revelation or a divine sign in the sky. It didn’t come with answers or a sudden rush of peace.

It came in small, ordinary moments.

It came in the kindness of a stranger who paid for her coffee when she forgot her wallet. In the friend who sat with her in silence, not trying to fix anything, just being there. It came in the warmth of sunlight on her skin after a long, dark winter.

It came in the rhythm of the river, steady and constant, whispering, I am here.

And one night, as she lit the lantern Jonah had given her, something inside her softened.

She watched the light flicker and dance, and for the first time in months, she allowed herself to believe—just a little—that she was not alone.

Healing wasn’t about forgetting. It wasn’t about moving on. It was about learning how to carry both love and loss together.

Faith didn’t erase the pain, but it gave her something to hold onto in the darkness.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Lessons on Grief, Loss, and Healing

Grief is not a problem to be solved; it is a journey to be walked. It is raw and unpredictable, but it also holds the potential for transformation. Faith and spirituality—whether in God, in love, in nature, or in the unseen threads that connect us—can be the lantern that guides us through the night.

Faith Does Not Remove Pain, But It Can Offer Comfort

Believing in something greater than ourselves does not mean we won’t suffer. It means we don’t have to suffer alone.

Healing Happens in the Smallest Moments

The grand gestures of healing are rare. More often, it is the quiet acts—kindness, stillness, a deep breath—that slowly stitch us back together.

Try this: Keep a journal of small moments that bring you comfort each day, even if it’s as simple as a good cup of coffee or a kind text from a friend.

It’s Okay to Question, to Doubt, to Wrestle With Faith

Faith is not the absence of doubt. It is choosing to lean in, even when nothing makes sense.

Permission to feel: If you’re angry at God, if you feel betrayed, if you don’t know what you believe anymore—that’s okay. Faith is not about perfection; it’s about authenticity.

Grief and Love Coexist

We never "get over" the people we love. But we learn to carry them differently.

Finding Light in Darkness

Amelia never stopped missing Jonah. Some days, the ache was sharp, a raw wound that reopened when she least expected it. Other days, it was soft and warm, like a memory wrapped in light.

But she kept returning to the river, the lantern, and the quiet, knowing she was not alone.

Grief does not mean the absence of faith. If anything, it is proof of love—the kind that refuses to die even when you cannot see or touch it, the kind that teaches us how to live again in a world of intangibles.

Healing isn’t a straight line. It is a winding road full of detours and long stretches of silence. Some days will feel tender and long, and the weight of it all may press in a little more.
On other days, you’ll wake up and notice—you made it through.   Not because it hurt any less, but because love carried you. The love you gave, the love you lost, and the love that still lives inside you.  So when the weight returns, trust that love will carry you again.   It always does.

And in those moments, when the pain feels endless, remember this:

You are not alone.

The light will always find you.

Even here. Even now.