I loved him.

Not in the way the world loves fame or comfort—but in the quiet way a soul loves a lantern in the dark. Father Efren was that light. A steady flame when everything else felt cold and collapsing. He wasn’t just a priest. He was my friend. My safe place. My proof that God still placed good people on this earth.

He knew how to listen—not just to words, but to silence. He carried my secrets like sacred prayers and never once made me feel small for my brokenness. In a world that demanded perfection, he gave me grace.

And then—just like that—he was gone.

No warning. No last confession. Just absence.

And I hated it. I hated the way death came for him so quietly, so undeservedly. I hated the silence in the chapel, the way his chair sat empty like a cruel reminder. I hated the prayers I kept saying into the dark, hoping for a whisper back.

I was angry at God.

How dare You take him? How dare You leave us with ashes when he gave us fire?

But beneath the rage was a love so big it broke me. I cried not just for what I lost—but for everything I never said. For every moment I thought I’d have more time.

Now, I walk through each day carrying all three:

Love that aches.

Grief that swells like a tide.

Rage that begs for meaning in the loss.

And still, somehow, I hear Father Efren’s voice—soft, steady, as if from far away:

“You are not alone. Keep going.”