There are moments in life when words fail, when explanations fall away, and only presence remains. It is in such moments that one discovers who truly stands with us.
Sangeetha remembers two such moments.
One was Achan O.
He was the chaplain during her undergraduate years—a man with a compassionate posture and deeply caring eyes. There was a quiet gravity about him, even within his approachable presence. He was a father to many, transcending their different identities.
At that time, she was facing a painful situation. A strong, determined woman opposed her desire to marry her son. This woman, a single parent, had raised her children through dire poverty, educating them into remarkable professions—a doctor, an engineer, and another theologian. Sangeetha herself was not Indian, but she believed she was worthy: a doctor, spiritually inclined, and, she hoped, kind. She had dreamed of a shared life of service with the theologian—building congregations, offering both spiritual and physical healing together. He, however, felt trapped—a dutiful son obeying his mother while turning away from the woman he loved.
Achan understood.
She had already lost her father, and her mother was in another country. Perhaps he saw the vulnerability beneath her resolve. He went to great lengths to intervene, reaching out through a colleague—a theological college principal closely related to the family.
When he returned and met her, he did not speak many words. He simply shook his head.
It had not worked.
But what remained etched in her memory was this: his eyes filled with tears when he saw hers. He did not try to explain or resolve her grief. He simply shared it—as a father would, bearing her pain with her.
The other moment came nearly twenty-eight years later.
This time, it was her daughter.
Her daughter was kind, beautiful inside and out, empathetic and gifted, just finishing college. She had chosen to marry a man who was glamorous, handsome, and captivating—raised abroad, shaped by different values, and not yet employed. Sangeetha had come to see that he was not who he appeared to be. She feared he would not care for her precious girl as a truthful, responsible husband should. She feared he would hurt her.
But her daughter could not see it.
Smitten by love, and carrying her own struggles as a teenager , she was determined. Sangeetha’s husband, withdrawn, angry, and harsh in his responses, could not help either of them. In the end, the parents yielded—she was resolute, and his family stood firmly by her side.
After the wedding service—a beautiful one—the couple stood on the stage, receiving guests. The bride was radiant, glowing with happiness.
Sangeetha stood near the steps to the stage, her heart heavy with unspoken fears.
A pastor, Rev. V, came and stood beside her. One word led to another, and soon her guarded thoughts gave way. She began to cry.
And as he listened—truly listened—he too wept.
It is difficult for Sangeetha not to remember these two pastors—these two fathers in the faith—who, in her moments of deepest pain, chose not to stand apart, but to step into it with her.
When she cried, they cried.
There were, no doubt, others who sensed her heaviness, who cared in their own way, who perhaps even prayed for her. Their concern was real, and she remains grateful.
But these two men did something unwarrantedly special.
They did not remain at the surface of sympathy. They entered the depth of the moment. They allowed themselves to feel the weight of what she was carrying—the helplessness of a love that could not be fulfilled, the quiet dread of a future she feared for her child. They did not rush to advise, correct, or console with easy words. They simply stayed.
And in staying, they shared.
There is a kind of ministry that speaks, teaches, and leads. But there is another—quieter, costlier—that listens, absorbs, and weeps. It asks for no recognition, offers no solutions, and yet brings a profound kind of healing.
Their tears were not an obligation of their calling. They were the overflow of hearts that had chosen to be present—to be vulnerable, to be human with another in pain.
In those moments, she was not alone.
And even now, when memory returns to those tender and troubled places, it is not only the pain she recalls—but the quiet grace of having been accompanied through it.
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