My friend, Mark Thompson recently shared something that stopped me in my tracks:
“Grief is like glitter. No matter how much you try to clean it up, you keep finding it in the most
unexpected places.”
At first, it is everywhere. It clings to you without permission—on your hands, in your hair,
woven into the fabric of your days. It scatters itself across every surface of your life,
catching light in places you wish would stay dimly lit.
You try to clean it, to gather it, to restore some sense of order to the world that has been
quietly, irreversibly undone. You sweep and wipe and wash until your hands are raw with
the effort of trying to make things the way they were. And for a while, it almost works.
You begin to believe that maybe you’ve done it—that you’ve outrun it, contained it, survived
it neatly enough to move forward without constantly looking back. But grief is patient. It
doesn’t stay where you put it.
One day, without warning, you move a sofa.”
And there it is—a single fleck, small, almost insignificant, but impossible to ignore once it
catches the light. Suddenly, you remember and the tears come again. Not simply for the
loss, but everything that came before it. The laughter that once filled the room and how the
presence of the one you loved softened the edges of your world.
Grief is patient and doesn’t leave.
It settles into the background, less suffocating, less loud. It stops demanding your constant
attention and instead becomes something you carry gently and carefully, like something
fragile but precious. You learn how to live alongside it. How to let it exist without letting it
consume you entirely.
For a long time, I thought the goal was to gather it all up—to contain it, manage it, maybe even
make it disappear. But I’m learning something gentler now. When I hear a song as a car passes
by, or catch a familiar scent, and feel the sudden shimmer of remembrance I didn’t see
coming—I pause. I let it be and don’t brush it away so quickly. Because sometimes, the very
thing that hurts is also what quietly helps me heal. This time, when I pause, I might even smile.
Because grief is not only about loss—it’s also about love.
Love, in all its overwhelming, beautiful intensity, that once filled my life so completely even
now, like sprinkled glitter, leaves traces behind.
As I pause and recall the promise of God to be close to the brokenhearted and save those
who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18) I begin to feel a quiet, steady warmth that doesn’t
demand anything except that I notice it. That I remember. That I understand: the reason
memory still sparkles is because it mattered. And it always will.
A Small Step Forward and a Caring Prayer
The next time a memory “sparkles” into your day, instead of pushing it away, take a moment to
name it—and give thanks for the love behind it.
Lord, when grief catches me off guard, help me not to fear it or fight it. Remind me that these
tender moments are reflections of love that still lives on. Stay close to my heart and bring Your
comfort in every unexpected shimmer. Amen.
