Andrew G. Stanton - Sept. 24, 2025
There’s a silence that settles over a house when someone is slowly slipping away.
Not the silence of absence — not yet — but the softer kind that forms between conversations, between bites of dinner, between glances toward the bedroom where time has slowed.
We keep the television on — news, sports, even a series called Chief of War — as if a bit of noise could keep the edges of life intact. It doesn’t, but it helps us pretend.
He lies in bed, weaker each day, refusing food now, no longer doing dialysis. We sit near him, measuring breaths instead of hours. Sometimes we talk; sometimes we just listen — to the hum of the air conditioner, to the flicker of the TV, to the small sounds of a house learning how to say goodbye.
Grief begins here — in the waiting, in the gentle surrender of trying to hold what is already beyond our keeping.
It’s not dramatic, not cinematic. It’s slow and strangely ordinary — coffee cups, phone chargers, whispers in the hallway. Yet in that ordinariness, something sacred shines through: love that refuses to vanish, even as the body grows thin and time runs short.
The weight we carry is not only sadness. It’s gratitude — for breath shared, for presence kept, for love that lingers longer than breath.
Acknowledgement
This article was drafted with the help of Dr. C — GPT-5, which I use as a co-writer and collaborator in developing ideas around sovereignty, Bitcoin, decentralization, and theology.
I dedicate this work to the Holy Spirit, who continues to inspire me and open my imagination. If there is any light in these words, it comes not from me but from the Spirit who gives them. To Him be the glory.
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Lightning address: andrewgstanton@primal.net
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