One summer night not long ago, during an outdoor open mic concert, my grandfather stepped onto the stage and sang “Ole Man River” a cappella. I do not recall ever hearing him sing a note before that night, and I’ve not heard one since. He had been practicing for months without telling a single person — not even my grandmother.

But in those few minutes, I saw a side of his soul that I had never seen before. It wasn’t just any ole song for him. The lyrics verbalized what he felt inside but didn’t have words for.

I was left dumbstruck.

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Not long after that, my husband Jim gave me the book “How to Write One Song” by Jeff Tweedy of Wilco and Uncle Tupelo fame. I read it in a single sitting. With Tweedy’s careful instruction, I wrote the words to my one-and-only song inside the hardback cover of the book.

As much as I enjoy writing articles and children’s books, and as much as poetry feels like a playground to me, my deepest desire is to be a songwriter. A well-written song can, as C.S. Lewis says, “steal past the watchful dragons” of our minds and connect with our hearts in a matter of a few measures.

I have given music a brief try before. Once, I had a two-week stint with double bass lessons, but when my fingertips blistered and I couldn’t shampoo my hair without wincing, I was finished. I don’t have the grit to be a musician.

But I wish I could write a song for you now, my dear Memphis.

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I wish I could put rich and heavy words to your pain and lay them between bars of music that we could sing together. That way, we could remind each other that we’re not alone. If I could, I would craft a chorus — intended to be repeated — that would bring a salve-like comfort and hang around in your memory so that even when you wake up in the night, you might find it ready and waiting like a warm hug.

I would write spaces into my song where the instruments play alone, without words, and soothe crevices in the mind that no lyric can reach, that ease throbs only tears bear witness to. I wish I could offer you a way to let your vowels drag on in a moan, buttressed by the piano or guitar or even a low and steady drumbeat, so you would feel heard in your ache and in your fear. Because I don’t know a soul in this city who isn’t swimming in pain or anxiety of some sort this week. But sadly, I don’t know how to play that kind of music.

I don’t even know how to write those kinds of words.

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So in this space, I offer two things. First, some visual silence. In a world where photos and memes and videos and texts are coming constantly, I offer this one space. It is meant to serve as a visual representation of a vacuum for those moments when no word will suffice. It’s also just a moment to let your eyes rest.

Second, I offer a reminder. As has been said in this column before, things will not always be this way. Remember: this is not the final word. Death is not the end of the story, and there’s been some death around here this week. (You’ll recall that I look to the Bible for Truth. I know there are many who don’t agree with me, but we all look to something for Truth whether we realize it or not.)

The Bible speaks clearly to this pain we are in on the very last page. Revelation 21:3-5 says:

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!”

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No more mourning.

No more crying.

No more pain.

No more death.

God with us. All the time.

My dear Memphis, I cannot write in this space what I wish I could, which is a song that cries for you and with you and through you. But instead, I offer something better. I offer God himself. He is available to every one of us.

He can handle every tear and every grief and every lament. He can handle it when we pound on his chest in anger, all filled with questions and doubts and worries about the next moments. He knows what we’re made of. He’s the One who made us. So don’t be shy about crying out to him now. Don’t be afraid to sing the song that’s hanging thick and dark in your heart. Even if it sounds more like a dirge. Or a groan.

Because sometimes a song sings what a sentence could never say.

Candace Echols on writing about herself, her family and her faith