Where Love Still Lives
A Modern Lament
Before You Read
I want you to lean in and listen to this…
Love does not die when we lose our person. And in ways our person doesn’t either.
I know that may sound a bit strange, but let’s think about it for a minute. We do indeed stop physically living beside the person we love, but in our mind and hearts we keep living with them — through memory, story, laughter, faith, and the everyday ways their love still lingers in who we are and the memories that have shaped us.
When I first started writing again, I wasn’t trying to create something beautiful. I was trying to release, process, leak out my emotions…. survive basically.
There were feelings that words couldn’t hold and silence that felt unbearable. Writing became a way to speak when my heart didn’t have language yet — to honor what was, to name what still was, and to remember that love hadn’t gone anywhere.
And even now, as I write this, six years later… I am still finding a beautiful release in the writing of raw words — today it was the unfolding of my modern lament.
It’s honest. It’s messy. It’s love and loss braided together.
And I share it with you because maybe you’ve felt that too — the strange ache of loving someone who isn’t here, yet still is. Here we go:
Where Love Still Lives
My modern lament of loss + remembering.
One minute we were laughing, planning out our days. And then suddenly we were sitting behind a curtain — so many questions, so many tests.
It was the beginning of pain I’d never known before.
Pain that reached down deep and rearranged everything.
Fourteen months. They flew by and dragged on all at once. Hope. Fear. Love. Torment. All tangled up together, twisting through the same days.
The deepest kind of love I’ve ever felt —
the kind that digs into your soul,
planting memories you don’t want to forget,
even as you’re watching the leaves of your family tree start to wither.
I wanted to hold on tight — to every moment, every breath, every look. Because I knew the end of us was coming. And the knowing stole my air.
There were days I had to run outside,
just to see the world going on,
but at the same time everything in me wanted it to stop.
Because I knew the faster it moved the sooner we would end.
I would try to imagine myself walking without you —
living on without you
but I couldn’t. The thought of it made my body shut down.
Sometimes I’d start gasping for air, other times dry heaving — that’s the ugly, beautiful truth of love that hurts. It takes your breath even when you’re trying to hold it.
And yet, here I am today. Still breathing. Still holding you — maybe tighter than ever. You’re here, just differently now. Not beside me, but within me. You live in my heart and in my mind, woven into the threads of my being.
People say time heals,
but I don’t believe that.
Time doesn’t erase love —
Neither does death —
it just changes its form.
The ache stays,
but so does the gift of you.
The way you loved.
The way you gave.
The way you taught me what it means to stay.
I still see you.
I see you in the way our children love others,
serve others,
show kindness and generosity.
You taught them that.
I still hear you —
in their laughter,
their morals,
their love for Jesus.
I remember how you looked right at them —
steady eyes, a firm resolve —
and you asked,
“Do actions speak louder than words?”
They answered,
and you smiled.
You said,
“That’s right… love well.”
And that’s what we’re here still trying to do. To love well. To live like you did — with faith, with courage, with kindness.
Your life mattered.
And your love carries on.
We hold it dear.
In the same space as the ache of missing you.
Love still lives here.
Right here.
Inside all that remains.
Why This Matters
I think we forget sometimes that grief is love — still living, still reaching, still remembering.
Writing a lament like this doesn’t make the pain go away, but it gives it somewhere to rest — to be valued, and recognized.
It allows us to see that even in the cracks of heartbreak, love keeps growing.
If you’ve lost someone you love, try writing your own Modern Lament.
It doesn’t have to sound poetic or polished — it just needs to sound like you.
It’s a sacred way to tell your story of loss, to remember what you are still carrying, and to let God meet you in the ache.
You can start with a few simple questions:
What did I go through?
Where do I still feel their presence in my life today?
What did they give me that I still carry?
What do I want to remember about the love we shared?
Write it for you.
Not to move on, but to move with.
Because love doesn’t end when life does — it carries on, with us.
And sometimes, naming that love is how we keep breathing.
Write Your Own Modern Lament
A Guided Reflection for the Ones Still Learning to Live with the Love That Remains
If something in you stirred while reading this — that ache, that knowing — maybe it’s time to put words to your own story.
To honor your journey and let your heart speak what it’s been carrying.
This is how we begin to live with love in a new way — not gone, but woven in.
I’ve created a gentle guide to help you start.
Inside, you’ll find prompts and simple steps to help you hold what still hurts while remembering what still matters.
→ Get the free guide: Write Your Own Modern Lament
(It will arrive in your inbox with other valuable information about walking with grief.)
Because love still lives here — even in the midst of the ache.
And sometimes the most sacred thing we can do
is let it speak.