14/12/2025
The Weight and Glory of Presence
We take for granted the moments we are given in the presence of one another—especially with those we love and live beside. Presence feels ordinary while it is available, invisible while it remains. Only when it is taken from us do we realize how priceless it was.
We regret then—not because we did not love, but because we were distracted. Lost in borrowed identities. Striving to keep up with a world that never stops demanding more. We traded sacred moments for urgency: moments that could have been spent pushing a little one on a swing, listening to a teenager unravel their insecurities, or smiling quietly while a young adult discovers their strength and independence.
Time is generous until it is not.
You can prepare for death in theory. You can watch cancer advance. You can steel yourself as the battle seems to turn. But the truth is this: you are never prepared for the moment presence leaves. When it does, the universe collapses inward. Something inside you dies—and you are the one left behind.
The sun rises, not to comfort you, but to torment you with another day you must endure. It sets, as if to mock your survival. Voices become distant thunder—barely audible. Life continues, but you do not recognize the world anymore.
Yet even in this devastation, something remains.
In the early days of my family, there was laughter—real laughter. Joy without effort. Love without fear. Then the world asked more of me. And the more I gave, the more it demanded. Until one day, I was no longer myself.
It was as though darkness took pieces of me—because I allowed it. Only later did I realize that what was taken from me was also taken from my family: the domain I was entrusted to protect.
Before this erosion, I carried a different kind of presence. When I entered a room, calm followed. Those who know me can testify—tension dissolved, anxiety settled. Not because of charisma, but because my faith was undivided. Love was simple. Power was quiet and certain.
I thought that presence was gone forever.
It returned—but this time, to me alone. And it returned too late.
Yesterday marked five months—twenty-two weeks—since my wife, my best friend, passed away. Not from cancer itself, but from the consequences of its treatment. However it came, her presence is gone from me. From us.
My daughters are ravaged by absence.
All I wanted was to go—to be with my beloved. But to leave would have shattered my daughters beyond repair. So I remained, trapped between grief and responsibility, carrying wounds I was not allowed to show. Life became a thorn lodged deep in my chest.
I remember one day in the hospital. I was pushing her wheelchair through quiet corridors. We were not speaking. And yet, everything was being said. I told her how good it felt—just to be there. Just to share presence. Silence without fear.
That memory became a doorway.
From it, presence stirred again in my spirit—a spirit I believed was wounded beyond life. A gentle presence held me when I could not hold myself. And I heard Him speak:
You are Mine, and I love you. I am with you now and forever. I will restore what was taken from you. Do not think of life as temporary anymore—I have made you eternal. I have made you incorruptible and immortal. You have not yet seen what I have done for you.
I redeem all things—especially love and sacred bonds that I myself joined together.
Do not walk into a room merely to bring calm anymore. Shake it from its deepest foundations. Do this in love, and you will see.
I know you are fatally wounded. I know how deep the affliction lies. Get up. Walk in it. My glory will hold everything that must not be shaken.
And then the Word met me—alive, hidden in Him. I remembered:
> “I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.” (Galatians 2:20)
My sins were nailed to the cross He carried. Their weight no longer defines me. I look up now, and His presence surrounds me—not to remove pain, but to make life possible again.
Presence is not passive. Presence is power. Presence is love that remains when everything else has been stripped away.
If those you love are still with you—be there. Fully. Undistracted. Reverent.
One day, presence will become memory.
Until then—choose it.
> “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12)
---
A Closing Prayer
Father of all presence,
Teach us to see what we still have before it becomes what we have lost. Slow our racing hearts and open our blinded eyes, that we may stand fully awake in the holy ground of one another.
Restore in us what the world has taken. Gather the pieces we surrendered in distraction, fear, and striving. Heal the places where absence screams the loudest, and breathe Your nearness into wounds that still bleed.
For those who grieve, be closer than breath. For those who are numb, awaken holy hunger. For those who are strong, keep them gentle. For those who are broken, be their strength.
Teach us to carry Your presence—not as noise, not as performance, but as weight… as glory… as love that endures.
And when we walk into rooms, into homes, into lives, may what cannot be shaken remain, and what must fall, fall in mercy.
We choose presence. We choose love. We choose You.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
It is done
