Listen:
Job 29:1-6; 42:4-5a, 11
Job took up his subject again:
Oh, that life was like it used to be,
like days when God watched over me;
when his lamp shone on my head,
I walked by his light in the dark;
when I was in my prime;
when God’s counsel was in my tent;
when the Almighty was with me,
my children around me;
when my steps were washed with cream and a rock poured out pools of oil for me.
You said, “Listen and I will speak; I will question you and you will inform me.” My ears had heard about you, but now my eyes have seen you.
All his brothers, sisters, and acquaintances came to him and ate food with him in his house. They comforted and consoled him concerning all the disaster the Lord had brought on him.
Consider:
Silence.
It’s the silence.
When I sit down with folks who are grieving - or anticipating grief which is to come - it’s always the silence which worries them most. You’d think it would be the big events their loved one will miss out on. All the graduations and dance recitals, the weddings and birthdays, all those events which make up our lives.
But it turns out those are the moments which bring the most pain. Some bittersweet smiles and a pang of loss, sure. That’s pretty normal on the big days. But the moments which cause real pain, which bring grief most to the front, which makes it alive a real and present again? It’s always the little ones.
It’s always the small moments which had become routine. When you wake up and the pillow next to you is cold. When you make just enough coffee for one. When you watch a TV show, but don’t have anyone to point out how the team could have called a different play, who patiently nods and listens then returns to their book.
It’s those moments where grief is the most real. In Job’s story, every moment brought flashes of grief and loss and pain. So he turns to God and asks for relief, some respite from his loneliness, a break in the silence.
In response, God sends over Job’s friends with a casserole and some really warm, crusty bread. They can’t take the pain away entirely, but they can for those moments and hours break the silence. It doesn’t take any training or expertise. Just the presence of a friend so the loneliness floats away for a time, where you can remember what it is to be part of a whole.
And for that moment, the silence doesn’t win. It is sent away for the night and the comfort of companionship is welcomed in. It only takes a phone call and a friend.
Respond:
Who can you call today? Maybe it’s a friend in need of comfort or you asking for someone else’s time, but make a connection with someone else. Be brave and make the call. You’ll feel better after it’s done!
Pray:
Holy God, Source of all Comfort, we acknowledge the profound weight of grief felt not just in grand events, but in the small, empty routines of daily life.
We lift up those whose mornings are now marked by a cold pillow, whose hands pour just one cup of coffee, and whose evenings lack the familiar presence of a loved one. It is in these moments—the silent, routine ones— loneliness threatens to become absolute.
We thank You for the truth found in Your response to Job: companionship is a sanctuary. We pray for the friends and compassionate souls You send—the ones who arrive not with perfect wisdom, but with simple, warm offerings like bread and a willingness to sit.
Give us the grace to be those friends. May we have the humility to know we cannot erase the pain, but the courage to show up. Help us break the terrible power of the silence with our simple presence, reminding the grieving they are part of a whole.
Where silence screams, let our love offer hope. May our companionship provide the necessary respite until the dawn. Amen.
