In the absence, He comes

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There’s a quiet kind of ache they never say—

Not in birthing books or baby showers.

It creeps in the hush between midnight cries,

When your hands are full but your heart feels hollow.

You are the strong one, the smiling face,

The giver of warmth, the quiet grace—

But who holds you when the silence is loud?

Who mothers the mother when she’s not around?

Your body is tired, your soul even more.

You long for some arms to wrap theirs in yours.

A voice that would whisper, “You’re doing just fine,”

A mom to remind you that healing takes time.

But the crib rocks slow in a dimly lit room,

And tears fall soft while the world stays in tune.

You ache for a presence that isn’t quite near—

But Jesus, He sees every unspoken fear.

He comes not with flowers or perfect advice,

But with comfort that walks through the coldest of nights.

He cradles your grief in His nail-scarred hands,

And sits where it hurts, and somehow He stands.

He is the strength in your trembling song,

The One who was with you all along.

And though you don’t have the arms to miss,

You are wrapped in something just as rich.

So cry if you must, it’s not weakness to break.

Even strong hearts can shiver and shake.

But know this truth deep in your chest:

You may not have what you so desperately need—

…but you are still held.

And still fully blessed.