2 Kings 2:5

This verse comes from a remarkable story in the Old Testament about the prophet Elijah and his apprentice Elisha. In ancient Israel, a prophet was someone through whom God spoke — delivering hard truths, calling people back to faithfulness. Elijah was one of the most dramatic figures in the entire Bible: he had called fire down from heaven, been fed by ravens in the wilderness, and heard God speak in a still small voice after his own burnout and breakdown. Now his time on earth is almost over. A community of prophets-in-training at Jericho asks Elisha whether he knows that God is about to take his master. Elisha's answer is striking in its restraint: yes, he knows — but please, don't speak of it. It's a small, private moment of a man holding the knowledge of an approaching loss quietly, not yet ready to put it into words.

God, you already know the losses we can barely name yet. Thank you that you don't rush us past grief or demand we have everything processed before we come to you. Sit with us in what we know but cannot speak yet. And when we're ready, give us someone we can finally say it out loud to. Amen.

"Yes, I know. But do not speak of it." There's a whole interior world in those two sentences. Elisha knows his mentor — the man who found him behind a plow, threw a cloak over his shoulders, and changed everything about his life — is about to be taken from him. He knows. The other prophets know. Everyone knows. And yet Elisha doesn't want to talk about it. Not yet. There is something deeply, recognizably human in that: the knowledge of an approaching loss you're not ready to put into words, because naming it makes it more real than you can bear in this particular moment. Sometimes grief — or the anticipation of it — is something we carry quietly before we can carry it publicly. Elisha doesn't fall apart, doesn't deny the truth, doesn't perform a brave face. He just says: *I know. But not yet.* If you have ever sat with a hard truth you weren't ready to say out loud, you are in good company. And notice: God doesn't seem to rush Elisha past this moment. He is allowed to know, and to be silent. There's something genuinely gentle here — a reminder that you don't have to process everything immediately or perform your faith at full volume. Sometimes 'I know, but not yet' is an honest and faithful response.