Day 58: The Silence That Still Speaks Your Name

Some losses are too deep for ordinary words. This is one of those days when memory feels heavier, love feels louder, and silence says more than it should.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

— Psalm 34:18

It has been 58 days since you left us.

Fifty-eight mornings of waking up to a world that no longer holds your voice. Fifty-eight nights of trying to make peace with a silence that feels heavier than any sound.

And still… it feels unreal.

There are days when I manage. Days when I bury myself in work, in responsibilities, in anything that can keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. I move through hours like nothing has changed, smiling when needed, speaking when required, fulfilling roles that demand strength.

But grief has its own way of finding me.

It comes quietly. Unexpectedly.

In the middle of an ordinary moment, my heart would suddenly race, as if it remembers before I can even think. As if it whispers, “You cannot escape this. This is real.”

And today… today is one of those days.

Our home still carries you.

Not just in memories, but in presence.

I see you in the spaces you used to fill so effortlessly. In the corners where laughter once echoed. In the simple, ordinary things that now feel incomplete. It’s as if every wall, every chair, every quiet afternoon is still waiting for you to walk in again.

And maybe that’s what makes this so difficult.

Because in my heart, you never really left.

Whatever I do, wherever I go, I carry you with me. Not just as a memory but as someone I still long for. Someone I still expect to see. Someone I still want to talk to.

My younger brother.

I told myself I have accepted it.

I told myself you are in a better place—no… the best place. A place where pain does not exist, where tears are no longer needed, where peace is complete and eternal.

I hold on to that truth. I believe it.

But belief does not erase longing. It does not erase the fact that we could no longer see you, eat with you, talk with you, and be with you in this world. 

Because even if heaven has gained you… I have lost you here.

And there are days—honest, fragile days, when a part of me still resists reality. Days when my heart quietly protests and says, “What if this isn’t true? Unta damgo ra ang tanan!”

It’s not denial.

It’s love of the family… refusing to let go too quickly.

If missing you is a language, then my heart speaks it every day.

If longing is a place, then I have been living there since the day you left.

And yet, in the middle of all this pain, I return to God’s promise—that He is near, especially now, especially here, in the quiet places where I break without words.

Grief is not the absence of strength.

It is the presence of love that has nowhere to go.

So I will carry this.

I will carry you.

In every memory, in every silent prayer, in every tear I cannot show, and in every moment I choose to keep going even when it hurts.

Because you were never just part of my life.

You are part of who I am.

And no distance—not even death—can ever take that away.

58 days. 58 nights.

I miss you… more than words can hold.

Remembering You at the Family Camp-April 2, 2026

 Few hours from now, we will begin our family camp. It is meant to be a time of joy, reflection, and renewed faith but this year, it carries a quiet ache in our hearts. This will be the first of many family camps without our beloved Aljon.

In moments like this, his absence feels louder than any music, deeper than any silence. We can almost see him still moving around, helping with the setup, checking the sound system, offering his willing hands wherever they were needed. Aljon was never one to stay still when there was work to be done for God.

We remember how he would share his testimony with sincerity and fire, how he spoke of God’s faithfulness, how Christ changed his life, and how he held on to that hope no matter what. Those words, those moments, they remain with us… alive in our memories, and now, even more meaningful.

We also remember those recent, painful days—when we were gathered in the church, praying and holding on to hope, while he was at the hospital fighting his battle. Ate May, with a heart full of faith, reached out and encouraged the brethren to continue supporting and praying, because we all believed—deeply believed—that Aljon would still be with us in this year's family camp. We held on to that hope together. But God’s plans are always beyond what we can fully understand—unfathomable, yet never without purpose.

And beyond the duties, we remember the simple, beautiful things—his laughter on the court, whether it was basketball or volleyball, the quiet focus as he played chess, the gentle strum of his guitar, or even just the warmth of his handshake. In those ordinary moments, he gave extraordinary joy. 😭

Today, we grieve because we loved. And we love because God allowed us to share life with him, even for a while. Though our hearts are hurting, we hold on to hope—the kind of hope he himself believed in. A hope that one day, in God’s perfect time, we will meet again.

As we begin this camp, we carry Aljon with us...not in presence, but in spirit, in memory, and in faith. And perhaps, in the quiet corners of our hearts, we will hear echoes of his laughter, feel the strength of his testimony, and be reminded to live the kind of life that honors God… just like he did.

We miss you deeply Aljon. But we press on with tears, with faith, and with hope.

Day 30

 April 5, 2026 - God… it’s been a month.

April 5. Exactly one month since your passing, but the day our memories of you began to breathe louder than ever.

Aljon, your absence is still heavy. There are moments when everything feels normal, and then suddenly it hits. The silence. The space you used to fill. The laughter we still expect to hear.

Lisod gihapon dawaton. Murag bag-o pa kaayo ang tanan.

We still find ourselves asking why… and wishing for one more moment, one more conversation, one more chance to see you smile.

But even in this pain, we hold on to God.

Because if there’s one thing this past month has taught us, it’s this:

God’s plans are deeper than our understanding… and His love reaches even in our darkest grief.

We miss you, Aljon. So much.

But we also thank God for your life, for the joy, the memories, and the love you left behind.

Padayon mi diri… bisan lisod.

Carrying you in our hearts. Holding on to faith. Trusting that one day, in God’s perfect time, we will fully understand.

Until then, you are never forgotten. 🤍

​Though our hearts are broken, we take comfort in the truth of John 11:25-26, where Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die." 

We know that for those who walk in faith, "goodbye" is not the end, but a "see you again" in the kingdom of heaven.

​We reflect on the blessing of the time we had with Aljon, trusting that he is now in a place where there is no more pain, no more sorrow, and no more tears.

​Rest well, Aljon. You are deeply missed, but your spirit continues to guide us every single day.

​"God, grant us the peace that passes all understanding as we remember a soul who left us far too soon."

​Thinking of you always.

40 Days

 April 14, 2026-The artist community knew him as the Kristiyanong Artist—a master of the paint, the charcoal, the ballpoint, and the canvas. 

But to me, he was simply Aljon, my younger brother, whose soul was even more vibrant than the art he created.

Aljon didn’t just draw figures; he captured spirits. Whether it was the intricate stroke of a pen or the soft smudge of charcoal, his hands were a gift from God. 

But his true masterpiece wasn't found in a gallery; it was found in the middle of a Praise and Worship circle, guitar in hand, leading us all closer to the Creator he loved so much.

When Aljon played his guitar, you didn’t just hear music; you felt his devotion. 

He lived his life the way he approached his art: with patience, detail, and a deep faith.

It has been 40 days since you left us on March 5th, Aljon. 

The house is quieter without your music, and the world feels a little less colorful without your vision. 

But we take comfort knowing that today, you are likely leading the greatest worship team of all, painting the skies of heaven with colors we haven't even dreamed of yet.

Al, your art lives on in us, and your songs will never truly fade. We love you, little brother.

Thank you for teaching us how to see the beauty in the world and the rhythm in our faith. Fly high, Al. ✨

My Heart's Echoes: Aljon, You are Missed

There is a specific kind of silence that follows the departure of a younger brother. 

It is a heavy, echoing stillness. I find myself reaching for you in the middle of ordinary moments, only to realize that your presence is now a memory I can no longer touch.

Gimingaw ko nimo, Aljon. Pagka-sakit palandungon nga wala na ka.

I once believed that the day you left us was the hardest day I would ever endure. I was wrong. The hardest days are these countless days that follow—the "after" that carries the sharpest sting. During the day, I keep my mind a frantic hive of activity. I fill the hours with work and noise, building a fortress of busyness just to forget for a moment.

Pero inig human sa tanan, kung ako na lang usa... diha na mo-atake ang kamingaw.

When the world finally settles and I am alone, your absence occupies every corner of my being. My mind spins with the "if onlys"—the desperate wish to rewind the clock, to keep you here, to understand why it was you, my younger brother, who had to leave us so soon.

Ngano ikaw man jud, Al? Sa kadaghan sa tawo, ngano ikaw man?

There is a bittersweet comfort in knowing you have reached your destination. I tell myself you are in a place where the air is easy to breathe, where the heavy pains and the sickness that clouded your days have vanished into light. 

You are with the Lord, and for that, I am grateful. No more pain. No more suffering.

Apan bisan pa niana, pait gihapon. Sakit kaayo nga nawala ka namo.

How do we move on when everything I see and everywhere I go reminds me of you? My heart is still holding on because letting go feels like losing you all over again. 

I may never truly "move on," but I will carry you with me—in every prayer, in every memory, and in every silent moment where I still call your name.

Dili ka malimtan, Aljon. Magpabilin ka sa akong kasing-kasing, hangtud sa atong pagkakita pag-usab.