Thessalonians 4:13–18 (KJV)

13 But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.

14 For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.

15 For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep.

16 For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first:

17 Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.

18 Wherefore comfort one another with these words.

Dear Reader,

This sonnet was written after the death of the last parent, when the world feels changed and yet is not empty. The rooms still hold light. There are still people who remember how you began. And heaven is not silent, for those you love are with Christ.

When the last parent dies, something irreplaceable is gone. They remembered your beginning more completely than anyone else on earth. That ache is real. Scripture does not ask you to hide it; even Jesus wept. Name the grief. Then lift your eyes: your help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

You are not without witnesses. There are people who saw you grow—family, old friends, those who stood nearby through the years—and they still remember how you began. That memory is a gift. It means your early life has not vanished. It still lives in other hearts.

And there is a greater comfort still. Those you love are with Christ. The grave is not the end of them, and grief is not the end of you. The same Lord who received them keeps you, keeps the people who remember you, and keeps the promise that love is stronger than death.

If you are walking through that changed world, this was written for you. May it honor what you have lost, bless those who still remember you, and leave you with hope that does not fade.

— The Poet

When both who gave me breath have gone before,
the world itself seems tilted, thin, and strange.
Their room is empty on that quiet floor;
the hallway looks the same, and yet is changed.

No voice now answers “child” down that hall,
no thinning hand to bless or hold me fast.
The ordinary light feels spare as air;
the future stretches, emptied of the past.

Yet death is not the master of this night:
they live in Christ, whose promise cannot fail.
He spoiled the grave and flung the door to light;
and love outlives the flesh that once grew frail.

We mourn, but not as those who mourn in vain;
in Christ they live, and we shall meet again.