A Story of Holding Space, Not Answers

Learning to Hold My Child’s Sorrow

My husband and I have made a decision, and our daughter does not agree.

She has written a six-page essay detailing why she believes our decision is flawed. And when words fail, she turns to silence to punctuate her argument. Other times, she communicates in scribbled responses on a notepad, each letter pressing deep into the page.

This, I am convinced, is a good thing. A necessary thing. A heart that wrestles is a heart that cares.

Even in her anger, she sought me out this morning—not with words but with presence. She beckoned me to the backyard, pointing toward a cluster of periwinkle blossoms pushing through the earth. She helped me choose the color for a new couch cover, weighing the softness of the fabric against the light of the room. Later, she sat beside me at the kitchen table, agreeing to help plan a spring dinner, a quiet offering of peace.

Her heart is still tender.

But tenderness does not mean readiness. In her sorrow, my presence must be silent. How my own heart longs to bridge the space between us with explanations, to soften her frustration with reassurances. How easy it would be to meet her distress with well-meaning words—words that would likely bounce off the walls of her resistance, unheard and unwanted.

Instead, I wait.

And in the waiting, I begin to see something I had not seen before.

I think of the times I, too, have been angry—angry at God, angry at His silence. I have mistaken His quietness for absence, His restraint for indifference. How often have I pleaded for answers, for clarity, for a voice to break through the storm of my emotions?

Yet, looking back, I wonder: was He truly silent? Or was He simply with me?

Perhaps His stillness was not distance, but closeness—a presence so near that words would have only cheapened it. If He had spoken, would I have listened? Or would my turmoil have drowned Him out?

Sometimes, in the depths of sorrow, reasoning is futile. Platitudes wound more than they heal. A simple presence and a silent nearness are the truest comforts.

So, I sit. I do not rush to fix, to explain, to persuade. I simply remain.

And in this quiet abiding, I am learning to love her not by leading, but by lingering. This is the sacred work of motherhood—not to erase the ache, but to honor it. Not to hurry her through the valley, but to walk it slowly beside her, trusting that the same grace that holds me in silence is holding her, too.