Absence can be so loud.
But God hears.

by Bukhtawer Shabab

The silence descends upon a home when a person is absent. The kind that weighs heavily on your chest like an immovable burden, rather than just ringing in your ears.

Three weeks had passed since my daughter Emily’s funeral. She was seven years old. She left this world within 48 hours of experiencing an unexpected infection and high fever. No time to bid farewell. Not enough time to get ready. Simply gone.  

I tried to feel close to her by sitting on the edge of her bed every morning. Her final drawing — a happy sun with stick people underneath — was still tacked to the wall, and her stuffed animals were still piled up by her pillow. She had scrawled “Me and Mommy” in crooked letters.

Mourning and questions

I wasn’t upset with God. I felt nothing. I felt numb.

As a child, I occasionally accompanied my grandma to church. I understood the fundamentals: God exists, Jesus died for us, and we ought to be decent people. However, I never encountered religion daily. Though I prayed at times after Emily was born, when she was ill or when I was afraid, I wouldn’t consider myself a believer.

People were saying things like “God has a plan” and “She’s in a better place.” Their comments seemed empty, but I knew they meant well. What sort of scheme involved stealing my small girl?

I could hardly get out of bed for weeks. I could see the pain written all over my husband, Mark, even though he tried to be strong. We mourned in separate ways. He immersed himself in his work while I shut down. We began to drift apart somewhere in the haze of our sorrow. We ceased discussing Emily. It hurt too much.  

Back to the Bible

I sat in the kitchen one morning and gazed at my unfinished coffee. I hadn’t eaten much in days. Even though I was exhausted, I couldn’t fall asleep. I sensed that I was sinking into a hole I couldn’t escape from.

At that moment, I recalled the Bible my grandmother had given me on my eighteenth birthday. It had been years since I’d opened it. I had no idea if I still had it.

In the back of my closet, I discovered it in a box. Written in her meticulous handwriting, a message inside the front cover read: Give the weight to God when life becomes too heavy. He can carry it because of His strength.

For the first time in days, I sobbed while holding the Bible to my chest. I randomly opened it that night in the hopes that something, anything, would call to me. A passage from Psalms caught my attention: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (34:18, NIV).

It didn’t take the pain away, but something about those words wrapped around me like a blanket. Maybe I wasn’t completely alone.

I began to read a bit of the Bible each day. Only a few verses. Next, a chapter. After that, I started writing in a journal, mostly queries: What caused this to occur? God, where are You? Why does this hurt so much if You’re real?

I was thinking these thoughts one morning to Someone I wasn’t sure was listening. Still, I continued.

Meeting Linda, meeting Jesus

At that point, I met Linda.

A friend of a friend, she had lost a child a few years prior. My sister persuaded us to meet for coffee. I went, even though I didn’t want to.

Linda didn’t provide me with cliches or hasty responses. She simply listened. She then kindly shared her story with me: the days when she wanted to give up, the sadness, the rage. And how she found hope in a relationship with Jesus — not a religion but a genuine relationship with a real Savior — in the midst of it all.

I once more discovered my mission. And even though the suffering persisted, I found calm.

We began holding weekly meetings. Linda consistently led me back to God without pressuring me. She clarified why the world is broken, why terrible things occur, and why God didn’t abandon us in our brokenness. She discussed Jesus as a person who experienced and comprehended suffering, not merely as a teacher or historical person. He was someone who overcame death.

That bit stayed with me. Emily was dead. However, death might not have been the end.

I became a follower of Jesus a few months later. It wasn’t in a church. I prayed in a whisper while in my living room, tears streaming down my cheeks: “I think You’re real. I think You adore me. I am in need of You.”

Purpose, peace, presence

I still miss Emily every day. However, the gloom that engulfed me has changed. I’m no longer under its grip.

I’ve discovered methods to honor my daughter’s life, such as volunteering at the neighborhood children’s hospital, starting a support group for bereaved parents, and sharing my story with others who are experiencing the same sense of loss as I did.

Though my husband and I are still recovering, something changed as I allowed God into my pain. We resumed praying, reading the Bible at night, and attending church together. We now discuss Emily in an honest, open, and fearless manner. We laugh and cry at different moments. However, we work together.

Grief didn’t go away when I came to Christ, but now I have something to cling to: a hope that death doesn’t have the last say, a peace that defies logic but is somehow real. The silence in our home has changed as well. It’s still quiet at times, but it’s not empty. There’s a presence in the stillness. A comfort. A light. And I know I’ll see my daughter again.