Grief is a guest that stays too long,
it sleeps beneath the ribcage,
folded quietly like a letter
you forgot you wrote.
Not gone, just waiting.
The body remembers
what the mind tries to silence.
Holidays come with their gold and noise,
but you see the empty chairs,
the names not spoken,
the faces missing from the light.
Even joy feels like treason.
Laughter echoes through your skin
and turns cold before it settles.
Your spine stiffens
at songs that meant something once.
Your chest tightens
like a fist beneath garland.
Grief doesn't announce itself,
it just stands, tall,
uninvited,
and present.
Loneliness blooms beneath the glitter.
People smile. You bleed inward.
They celebrate. You suffer.
Because the ache doesn't shout,
it settles in.
And December is a cruel revealer
of what’s still unhealed.
But Christ walks softly
where no one else can tread.
Not with sweet carols. Not bright wrapped gifts.
With scars.
With blood.
With breath still warm
from the tomb He left behind.
He does not scold your sorrow.
He wears it.
He does not deny your ruin.
He redeems it.
So let the tears fall quietly in the
pew.
Let your body shake, release the weight
like a winter storm cracking old trees.
He is doesn’t count shame
He is not far.
He is the comfort who took flesh,
the Word who made wounds holy,
the fire who shares your night.
Come, broken.
Come bare.
He has room at His table
for sorrow.
And He does not leave
as others do.
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