There are moments in life that leave us speechless. Last week, I learned that a friend lost her son unexpectedly. He was young. He was a husband. He was a father to a baby who will grow up hearing stories about him instead of making new memories with him.

As a parent myself, I can’t even begin to imagine that kind of loss. At 24, my daughter has her whole life ahead of her, and the thought of losing her at a young age is almost too painful to consider. It makes my heart ache for every parent who has walked this road.

Like many when I first heard about my friend’s son, my first instinct was to find the right words. To offer comfort to her and somehow ease the unbearable, but the truth is, there are never any words.

As Christians and women, we sometimes feel pressure to have an answer for suffering. We want to bring comfort and remind people that God is good, that He is near, an that He is faithful. All of those things are true. But grief has a way of reminding us that truth isn’t always what a broken heart needs first.

Most often, people don’t need answers. They need presence.

Romans 12:15 tells us, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”

I’ve read that verse countless times, but this week it landed differently.

Mourning with someone is a big responsibility.

It means choosing not to look away when someone else’s pain feels overwhelming. It means resisting the urge to fix what can’t be fixed. It means sitting in silence when silence is the only honest response. It means showing up.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that “mourn with those who mourn” doesn’t mean carrying someone else’s grief. We can’t. No one can, but we can remain by their side as a friend in those moments and days that are harder then others.

Grief doesn’t end after the funeral or celebration of life. It doesn’t disappear after a year. It changes, but it stays.

Parents never stop being parents. Spouses never stop missing the person they planned a future with. Children never stop wondering what life would have been like with the parent they lost.

So maybe one of the greatest gifts we can offer isn’t a perfect speech or the perfect Bible verse. Perhaps it’s consistency or being the friend who keeps showing up long after everyone else assumes they’re “better.”

As someone who follows Jesus, I believe He is the ultimate source of comfort. I believe He meets us in our deepest sorrow and carries burdens we cannot bear ourselves. I also believe He often comforts people through the hands and hearts of those willing to stay, not because we have the right words or we know how to fix the pain, but because love doesn’t run from suffering. It sits beside it.

If someone you know is grieving today, don’t worry so much about saying the perfect thing. Just show up. Call. Text. Bring coffee. Take their dog for a walk. Sit quietly. Cry together. Your presence may be the greatest comfort you can offer.

Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is simply refuse to let someone grieve alone.

Love. Give. Live.