Your presence is a ministry

There is a quiet tragedy unfolding all around us—not in the headlines, not in the chaos of crisis—but in the hollow silence that follows.

We speak of loneliness often.

We name it in passing, write about it in journals,

whisper it in prayers and podcasts and pulpits.

But rarely do we step into its shadows

and sit with the ones who dwell there.

We assume they’re okay now.

We assume someone else called, someone else cared, someone else sent the text, made the meal, bridged the gap.

We assume silence is what they needed—space, time, air. But more often than not, silence is what they feared.

Because maybe the hardest part

wasn’t the diagnosis, the divorce, the death,

the betrayal, the breakdown, the deep night of the soul—maybe the hardest part

was the stillness that settled in after.

The days that passed without a knock,

the phone that stayed silent,

the inbox empty.

The prayers unanswered. The door unopened.

The table set for one.

We underestimate the ministry of presence.

Not the polished words,

not the perfect timing,

not the spiritual platitudes wrapped in bows—

just presence.

Just your face, your voice, your arms,

your sitting in the ashes with them,

as Christ did with us.

This is what the Gospel looks like in flesh:

not waiting for them to come back around,

but going to where they are.

It’s leaving the ninety-nine for the one who slipped quietly out the side door,

hoping someone would notice.

There are hearts breaking in plain sight,

while we scroll, while we schedule, while we say,

“They’re probably fine now.”

But what if they’re not?

What if your text

was the difference between despair and another day? What if your presence

was the echo of God’s mercy

in a room they feared was forgotten?

What if you were the miracle they were praying for?

So go.

Don’t wait to feel brave.

Don’t wait for the right words.

Don’t wait for the perfect timing.

Show up clumsily, imperfectly, awkwardly.

Show up late if you have to—but show up.

Because love that delays too long

becomes absence.

And absence becomes pain.

The lonely are not a mission.

They are our reflection—

the very ones Jesus called the least of these.

And He will ask us:

“Where were you when I was alone?”

Let us be a people who answer,

“I was there. I came. I didn’t let silence speak louder than love.”

Because in a world echoing with empty spaces,

presence is a gift.

And love that shows up

is how heaven touches earth.