There is a quiet ache that shows up for many people during this season — an ache rooted not in ingratitude, but in absence.

People are missing parents, children, spouses, friends.
Some are separated by death.
Some by divorce.
Some by distance, work, or circumstance.

And in those moments, many retreat inward — sometimes into silence, sometimes into memory, and sometimes into the small, glowing screens we carry with us.

Rather than rushing to judge that instinct, I want to pause and offer compassion.

For some, a phone is not an escape from life — it is a place of belonging.

It holds images of people who mattered.
Messages that still carry warmth.
Memories that exist because, at one point, someone chose to be present enough to capture them.

Those moments mattered then.
And they still matter now.

We often hear that being “on your phone” means you’re not present. But presence is not always about eye contact or proximity. Sometimes presence looks like grief finding a place to rest. Sometimes it looks like memory keeping love alive. Sometimes it looks like survival.

Rather than villainizing the tool, perhaps we can extend grace to the person holding it.

Technology, like all tools, reflects the heart of the One who made creativity, communication, and connection possible in the first place. God did not give us tools to replace Him — He gave them to serve people, especially in moments when hearts are tender.

There is also something profound about how light works.

When a light source is behind you, it illuminates where you’ve been — but its reach narrows the farther you look back. When you turn forward, the light spreads wider, revealing more of what is ahead. The past still matters, but it no longer defines the full field of view.

What we experience in the present is only possible because of what has already passed. The memories, the lessons, the love — they all shaped us. But the greatest expression of light is not behind us. It is before us.

Jesus said He is the Light of the world.
And light is not meant to trap us in reflection — it is meant to guide us forward.

The present moment is where we are given agency. It is where decisions are made, healing is allowed, and scaffolding is built for what is to come. The future is not dimmer than the past — it is brighter, wider, and filled with opportunity to honor God with what we do next.

This season is not about pretending loss doesn’t exist.
It is about remembering that life still does.

Christ came to give life — and life more abundantly.

So if today you’re holding your phone because it feels like the closest thing to belonging, you are seen.
And if you’re sitting beside someone who seems distant, perhaps what they need most is not correction, but understanding.

There is room to honor what has been.
There is room to cherish what is.
And there is hope — real, living hope — for what is yet to come.

May this season bring peace, clarity, and a renewed awareness that you are known, loved, and invited into life — fully.