Sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary conversation, you find yourself waiting for a name.
You hope someone will mention the person you miss. There is a story you would love to tell, yet you wonder whether your voice will hold out or crack.
A warm memory comes, and the tears come with it.
Perhaps that feels confusing. You were smiling a moment ago. Now your throat tightens. Both belong to the love you still carry.
In Acts chapter nine, we meet a woman called Tabitha, also known as Dorcas. She cared for people through practical kindness. When she became ill and died, the believers sent for Peter.
When he arrived, they took him upstairs. Verse thirty-nine tells us:
“The room was filled with widows who were weeping and showing him the coats and other clothes Dorcas had made for them.”
Their tears and those clothes appear together. The garments make her kindness visible. These women had received something made by her hands, and now they were showing Peter what her care had meant.
The story goes on to tell of Tabitha being raised to life. But before that extraordinary moment, Luke lets us see this room of grieving people remembering her kindness.
We can pause there too.
It is a tender picture of remembering someone. Tabitha is named, and the things she made are noticed. Her life has touched theirs in ways they can still show.
Perhaps you long for that kind of space. Somewhere the person you love can be remembered as themselves, beyond the illness or the day they died.
You knew their little ways. You knew what made them feel at home. Sharing a memory gives that particular person space in the conversation again. The love you shared can still be spoken about, even while you feel how much you wish they were here to hear you tell the story.
You may still have questions for God. His comfort may feel difficult to find. Even here, a cherished memory can have a place beside your sorrow.
In an account shared by the charity Sue Ryder in June 2025, Lisa Riley spoke about a silver heart locket her mum had given her. It held pictures of them both and recalled a happy holiday for her mum’s fiftieth birthday.
Lisa described the warmth of that memory. She also said that, twelve years after her mum’s death, the grief still hurt deeply.
The locket held a reminder of their love while the ache remained. That personal gift helped her remember someone she still missed.
Perhaps remembering brings warmth today. Perhaps it mostly hurts. You can let the memory be what it is, without asking it to make everything better.
God’s grace gives you room to come as you are, with affection and sorrow woven together. A smile can honour the person you miss. Tears can honour them too.
At home today, if you feel ready, share one small memory of them with someone you trust.
Let it be an ordinary moment that shows something of who they were. Tell it at your own pace. If your voice catches, there is room for that. If you smile, there is room for that too.
And if today feels too tender, you can leave the invitation open. God’s kindness towards you does not depend on being ready.
Question for you: what is one small memory of the person you miss that you would like to share in the comments? Share only what feels comfortable.
Let’s pray.
Loving Father, you know the person we miss and the memories we carry. Thank you for the love that still matters so deeply. Meet us gently as we remember. Hold our smiles and our tears, especially when you feel far away. Help us receive your kindness without rushing our sorrow. Amen.
Join me tomorrow as we consider the worry of facing food costs and bills while you are grieving.