“Enoch walked faithfully with God; then he was no more, because God took him away.” Genesis‬ ‭5‬:‭24‬ 

When Loss Comes in a Moment

This is exactly what happened with my dad. 

He woke up that morning like any other day.
He went about his routine.
He sat with Mum.
He spoke to her.
He gave her medicine for her leg pains.
He prayed for her.

And then, in a moment that felt like the twinkling of an eye, he gently fell back onto the bed here on earth — and walked into eternity.

Just like that.

He was walking and talking, smiling and praying, serving God faithfully; and then he was no more, because God took him away. 

There was no long goodbye.

No final gathering.

No prepared hearts.

It is comforting to know that Daddy has gone to a place of perfect peace, where his earthly struggles have ended. Yet grief is a mystery.

Grief is a heavy heart that keeps expanding under the weight of loss.

It is a stomach-churning, heart-squeezing feeling that cannot fully be expressed — only felt.

Am I happy for Dad?
Or am I broken because I miss him here?
Why didn’t we get a warning?
Why are we left in shock, trying to navigate life without him?

There are so many things to take care of in his absence.
How do we fill the gap?
How do we step into the space he occupied?
How do we continue the work he left behind?

This is what sudden loss feels like.

This is what grieving the death of a father feels like.

It is gratitude and heartbreak, faith and confusion — all at once.

Did Enoch’s Family Grieve Like We Do?

Scripture tells us about Enoch’s walk with God — but it is silent about his family’s tears.

And I find myself wondering…

Did Enoch’s wife struggle with these same questions?

Did she blame herself?
Did she understand that God had taken him?
Did she and her children search for him when he was nowhere to be found?
How long did they grieve the loss of a husband and father?

Did she replay their last conversation, searching for signs she might have missed?

Did she question God in the quiet moments:
“Why now?”
“Why so suddenly?”
“Why didn’t You let me prepare?”

The Unique Grief of a Wife

Because the loss of a husband is not just the loss of a person —

It is the loss of partnership.
The loss of shared memories.
The loss of private conversations.The loss of shared prayers whispered at night.
The loss of burdens carried together for decades.

A wife doesn’t just lose love.
She loses her other half in the daily rhythm of life.

The one who stood beside her through seasons no one else fully understands.

It is a different kind of silence.
A heavier kind of absence.

The Grief of Adult Children

And what about the children — now grown, now adults — who understand exactly what death means?

They don’t ask, “When is Dad coming back?”

They know he isn’t.

But sometimes the heart still waits.

Maybe he’s just stepped out.
Maybe he’s gone somewhere and will be back soon.
Maybe he’ll walk in and say,
“Are you free?”
“Can you do this for me?”
“Can you come to the market?”

The mind knows he is gone.
But the heart takes longer to catch up.

Adult children grieve differently.

They grieve the unfinished conversations.
The advice they will no longer hear.
The number they can no longer dial.
The voice that once steadied them.
The prayers that covered them.

They grieve the milestones he will miss.
The future grandchildren he may never hold.
The family gatherings where his chair will remain empty. The moments when they will instinctively reach for their phone — and then remember.

As adults, they understand the permanence of loss —
and sometimes that makes it even heavier.

When Scripture Is Silent About the Tears

Scripture is silent about their grief.
It tells us about Enoch’s walk — but not about his family’s weeping.

Nevertheless, I am certain they must have experienced the same human emotions we are facing now.

 

“The temptations in your life are no different from what others experience. And God is faithful. He will not allow the temptation to be more than you can stand. When you are tempted, he will show you a way out so that you can endure.”

‭‭1 Corinthians‬ ‭10‬:‭13‬ 

Even when Scripture does not tell us how Enoch’s family wept,
we know this:
God was near them.

And He is near us too.

The Grief That Ripples Through Generations

And then there are others whose grief is quieter — but just as real.

What would it mean for the sons-in-law who felt like they had gained a new father in the absence of their own?

For the one whose own dad had already left this world — and in that empty space, mine stepped in.

The one who knew that if he needed help with school pick-ups, or something fixed, or a steady voice of advice — my dad would be there.

Right then.

Without hesitation.

What does it feel like to lose that kind of presence?

To lose not just a father-in-law — but a father figure?

Grief does not ask for legal titles.
It attaches itself to love.

And what about the grandchildren?

The little ones who grew close to him.
Who sat beside him.
Who heard his stories.
Who saw him smile.

And then saw him being buried.

That image stays.

The lowering.
The sand.
The finality.

And the questions come:

“Why is Thatha’s face buried in the sand?”
“Why can’t he come back?”
“If he went to be with Jesus, why are you crying?”

How do you answer that?

How do you explain eternity to a child while your own heart is breaking?

They don’t yet understand the tension we live in —
that someone can be safe with Jesus
and still deeply missed here.

That heaven can gain
while earth feels the loss.

They don’t understand why tears fall
if faith says he is with God.

But perhaps that is because children see simply —
and grief is anything but simple.

The Silence in the Little Things

And then there are the parts of grief no one prepares you for.

What about the pet dog — our German Shepherd — Cairo?

It still waits when the car returns home.
It runs to the gate with expectation.
It searches in every room.

Waiting.
Looking.
Listening.

Not understanding why the familiar footsteps never follow.

And then there are the plants.

The ones Dad carefully watered every morning and every evening.

Arranged beautifully in every corner of the room.
Lined across the balcony.
Spread across the terrace garden.

He used to wipe their leaves gently.
Turn them toward the sunlight.
Notice when one looked weak.
Tend to them with patience and care.

Now they stand there — still growing, still alive —
but missing the hands that nurtured them.

The house feels different.

The air feels different.

The routines feel interrupted.

And yet, somehow, he is everywhere.

We see Dad in every little detail of our lives.
Around the house.
In the way things are arranged.
In the habits he formed.
In the values he planted in us.

We hear him in the songs we sing — especially his favorite ones.
Certain melodies now carry more than music;
they carry memory.

The chair is empty.
The plants are watered by someone else.
The dog still waits.

But his imprint remains.

Because love leaves fingerprints.

And when someone has lived faithfully and loved deeply,
their presence does not disappear —
it echoes.

The Hope That Holds Us

Perhaps the most beautiful part of Genesis 5:24 is not that Enoch was taken.

It is that he walked with God before he was taken.

My father did too.

He did not walk into eternity as a stranger to God.
He walked into the presence of the One he had been walking with all along.

And that changes everything.

Because for those who walk with God, death is not an end — it is a continuation.
Not a disappearance — but a crossing over.
Not abandonment — but arrival.

We grieve because we love.
We ache because there was depth.
We miss him because he mattered.

But we do not grieve without hope.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” ‭‭Psalms‬ ‭34‬:‭18‬ 

“And God is faithful…” 1 Corinthians 10:13

The same God who walked with Enoch
The same God who walked with my dad
Is walking with us now.

He is near in the silence.
Near in the empty chair.
Near in the unanswered questions.
Near in the long nights when the heart still waits.

One day, our walking will become seeing.
Faith will become sight.
And what feels like separation now will be swallowed up in reunion.

Until then, we hold on.

We carry his prayers forward.
We continue the work he began.
We walk faithfully — just as he did.

And when our time comes, may it be said of us too:

She walked with God.

And then she was no more — because God took her home.