The Curtain “I’m Not Gone” “Grief is a tremendous love that has no place to go.” Let me share a true story with you. It happened a few years ago. I got up one morning just as the first light of day began to break. With a warm cup of coffee, I settled into my recliner by the window. The world was still, wrapped in that soft, quiet hush that only dawn brings. As I gazed outside, I noticed a tree, its branches etched against the morning sky. I was humbled and filled with wonder, and a thought came to me. With all the strides humanity has made, all the technology and intelligence we’ve gained, we still cannot make a tree. Not truly. We cannot duplicate the quiet, living miracle of a tree. Then I looked down at the grass, glistening with the morning dew. Again, I realized that despite all of our advancements, we cannot create even a single blade of grass from nothing. Every day, these small, glorious miracles surround us, and yet, they often go unnoticed. In that moment, I was overcome with a profound sense of gratitude. I sat there, immersed in nature and what I can only describe as the quiet presence of God. Although I was sitting in my recliner and didn’t realize it, I was also in a peaceful, holy space, the kind where heaven and earth feel very close. As I was lost in these reflections, I began to feel the weight of absence. I started thinking about my wife, who had crossed over to the other side five years prior. There isn't a day that goes by that I don’t miss her deeply. As I sat there, I began to whisper aloud, “I miss you so much, and I wish you were here. Now that you’re gone, I feel so alone.” Over and over again. The ache was real because the love is still alive. And then something unexpected happened. A thought came, not from my own mind, but from a deeper place within me. It wasn’t an audible voice, but it spoke with a clarity that I will never forget. It said, “I’m not gone. I’m just not here.” Those seven words pierced through my sorrow like a beam of light. It felt like a hug I didn’t know I needed. It felt like her voice, not in sound, but in spirit. I sat very still. My sadness didn’t disappear, but it changed. It felt softer, like a security blanket instead of a heavy rock. Suddenly, I began to see everything differently. What if our loved ones are not gone, but simply beyond a veil, a curtain between this world and the next? It is just like air, which we cannot see, but it’s still there. We can see the air only when it moves. We see its effects as it rustles the leaves in the trees. We feel it in the breeze, as it caresses our skin. The unseen is no less real than the seen. Imagine sitting by a window, taking in the beauty outside. And then, someone closes the curtains. The view is gone from sight, but not from existence. The outside world hasn’t disappeared. It’s not lost or gone. It’s hidden. And so it is, I believe, with death. When someone passes, they’re not gone. They’re just not here. Their bodies may no longer walk the earth, but their souls continue, vibrant, alive, and eternal. We exist here on Earth at a certain frequency, a denser, slower vibration. But in the realm of spirit, that frequency is much higher. Sometimes, through acts of love, compassion, stillness, and forgiveness, we raise our own vibration and, for a fleeting moment, feel them again. We may hear them. We may know their presence is near. Just for a split second, we can punch through the curtain because our vibration rises, not to their level, but close enough to punch through. Most of the time, however, we are too caught up in the noise of life to notice. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t still with us. Those words, “I’m not gone. I’m just not here, have stayed with me. They’ve changed the way I see life, death, and the so-called “loss” we grieve. I believe it’s time we shift the language we use. Instead of saying “I’m sorry for your loss”, say instead, “They are not gone. They are just not here.” This shift helps us remember the soul's eternal nature. The body dies, yes. But the soul, the essence, the love, the consciousness lives forever. Sometimes, when we are very quiet, when we are kind, when we forgive, or when we feel deep love, it’s as if our hearts lift just a little, to a higher frequency. And in those moments, we might, once again, feel the people we love, not with our hands but with our hearts. We may hear them, not with our ears, but with our souls. It might only last a second, but it happens because they are closer than we think. These words stayed with me, “I’m not gone. I’m just not here.” They had a profound impact on me and changed how I think about death. Sometimes it may seem that I repeat an idea or a phrase. There’s a reason for that. Repetition is the only way to change a thought pattern and build a new pathway in the mind. Done often enough, it becomes reality. Instead of saying someone is gone forever, maybe it’s better to say they have moved into the next room. They are safe. They are loved. And one day, the curtain will open, and we will be able to cross over to the other side with them. As it says in 2 Corinthians 5:8, “We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” Let us take comfort in knowing that our loved ones are not lost or gone; they’re just not here. They’ve moved into the next room behind the curtain, waiting in light and watching with love. So, if you ever miss someone or if your heart feels heavy, remember this:” They are not gone. They are just not here.” Because love, real love, true love, never dies. It waits, just behind the curtain! Let me share with you a story that could be yours. There was a little town in the countryside where everyone lived a peaceful and simple life. In this little country town, there was a man named Ben, and everyone in town knew Ben as the man who whistled at funerals. It wasn’t out of disrespect. In fact, it was the opposite. For him, death was not an ending, but a shift to another realm, a gentle crossing into a place just beyond our sight. Ben had lived through his share of loss. His wife, his brother, and his best friend had all crossed over years ago. But if you asked Ben, he wouldn’t say they were gone. He’d smile knowingly and say, "They’re not gone. They’re just not here." It felt as if he were describing a friend who had momentarily stepped into the next room. And that’s exactly how he saw it. Most people avoid cemeteries, but not Ben. To him, it was like a park, peaceful and comforting. He was filled with joy and warmth as if he were visiting old friends, nodding to the names on the tombstones, and sometimes pausing as if listening for a reply. He talked to the dead with the same ease that others reserved only for the living. To Ben, the boundary was thin, like a curtain fluttering in a breeze. When people came to him in their grief, he didn’t offer pity. He offered them another way to see things. Ben said, "I know you miss them. I miss mine, too. But they’re not lost. We don’t lose loving souls. We stop seeing them for a while." Children seemed to understand him the best. When a little girl once asked Ben if her grandmother could still hear her, Ben knelt beside her and said, "Close your eyes, and tell her everything that you’ve wanted to tell her. Then be still. Sometimes love echoes back, not always in words, but in feelings like a warm presence that seems so strong, you need to look around and see if they’re there." To Ben, death wasn’t a dark, silent void. Life and death were equal parts of the same experience. They coexisted side by side but on a different plane. For him, death was like a homecoming, a return, a new adventure. He believed we live on a slower, denser frequency here on Earth. And when we die, our souls lift into a lighter, higher vibration like switching stations on a radio. We may not hear the same songs, but that doesn’t mean they’re not playing. You don’t see images in your living room until you turn on the television, which is a receiver. When our vibrations are higher, we can sometimes become a receiver and connect to that frequency. Ben had a theory. He believed that in moments of deep love, forgiveness, kindness, and stillness, our inner frequency raised just enough to feel them again. It was tangible, perhaps a whisper, a warm feeling, or a memory so vivid it feels like a visit. Ben’s house was full of old photographs and wind chimes. He said chimes made it easier for the wind to speak to him. Sometimes it would make him smile, as if the tinkling of the chimes were murmuring, “Come, welcome to this peaceful place." He didn’t fear dying. He saw it as an invitation from those he missed. It was a reunion with a love that never left, only shifted form. On the day that Ben crossed over to the other side, the town was quiet, except for the slow tolling of a single bell, piercing through the silence. People gathered in the little chapel, expecting sorrow. But instead, someone began to hum a gentle tune. Then another joined. And another. Until, softly, the room was filled with a melody that sounded like angels whispering. They weren’t saying goodbye. They were saying, "See you later." And somewhere beyond the veil, Ben was home, smiling and at peace. He wasn’t gone. He’s just not here.