FOR HE ALONE IS WORTHY

Maybe my garden isn’t barren. Maybe it’s bleeding. I knelt there again today. In the soil I’ve worked so hard to till. The same place I cried over seed packets and made promises to grow something worth tending. Something worth showing. Something… worth being proud of. And I saw it, A bloom. Fragile. Pale. Soft pink on the edge of becoming something beautiful. And before I could even whisper thank You, I cut it. Quick. Almost instinctively. Held it up to the world like a badge

I am learning that God never hurries, even when my heart does. I rush because grief makes everything feel urgent. Because loss convinces me that time is slipping through my fingers like sand I cannot hold. Because unanswered prayers feel like alarms going off inside my chest, demanding resolution, relief, rescue, now. But You are not frantic, Lord. You are not pacing heaven’s floors, checking clocks, scrambling to meet some invisible deadline. You are not behind. You are not

I keep thinking about the tomb. How He stood there, the stone still sealed, the grief still thick in the air, the finality still heavy on everyone’s breath. He knew what was coming. He knew resurrection was only moments away. He knew death would loosen its grip at the sound of His voice. And still, He wept. Not performative tears. Not rushed, apologetic sorrow. But holy grief. Present grief. Unashamed tears falling into the dust of loss. He did not skip the ache just because

I have hated this cross on my shoulders. I won’t dress it up with polished words. I won’t pretend it hasn’t felt heavy, splintered, crooked, rubbing raw the very place I begged God to heal. I have looked at others, their loads, their visible victories, and I have felt frustrated that this was the assignment placed on my back. This weight. This wilderness. This silence that stretches into years. I have cried, “Take it off!” I have prayed, “Trade it in!” I have whispered throug

“It’s not so bad,” they say. “It’s not so bad,” like a lullaby meant to quiet a crying child. Like a phrase smooth enough to lay over the sharp places and pretend the bleeding has stopped. But you don’t know that. You are not inside my mind where the echoes live. Where memories don’t ask permission before arriving. Where grief doesn’t knock, it collapses the door and makes itself at home. You don’t hear the way the day sounds louder without what I lost. You don’t feel the wei

I did not know how much I hoped in this dream until it died. I thought I had braced myself. I told myself I was prepared for disappointment, that I had learned the language of letting go, that I knew how to hold things loosely before God. But when it slipped from my hands, when the breath left it, I realized how much of my heart had been quietly living there. Grief has a way of revealing what hope was hiding. It exposes the prayers I never named out loud, the future I tiptoed

Come further up. Come further in. The words feel like an invitation whispered rather than shouted, not a command to hurry, not a demand to forget what I’ve lost, but a gentle beckoning to keep walking when my legs are trembling and my heart is still bruised. I have lived so long in the middle chapters. The part where the plot twists without warning. The pages where grief thickens the air and hope feels like a foreign language I used to speak fluently but now must sound out, s

Let Nothing Live in Me That Should Die… Let bitterness die. Let pride die. Let self-pity, comparison, old jealousy, false identity, dead dreams, and soul-sucking expectations die. I am tired of reviving what You have called me to bury. I am tired of watering roots You never planted, tending vines You never blessed. I have been nursing the wounds of offense until they became identities. I have called survival faith, and fear discernment. I have clung to the corpse of control a

You might be tired because you keep bleeding beauty into hands that only know how to break it. You keep offering pearls, but they’re trampled in the mud by feet too calloused to recognize worth. You’re not crazy. You’re not too sensitive. You’re sacred. And the sacred should be treasured—not tolerated, not twisted, not tossed aside. Jesus said it clearly: “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine…” (Matthew 7:6) And still—your heart

I don’t say most of it out loud. Not because it isn’t real, but because it feels too fragile to survive the air. The words live behind my ribs, pressed into the quiet places where tears gather before they fall. Thoughts without language. Aches without shape. Prayers that never make it past a sigh. And still—He sees them. Every sentence I don’t finish. Every question I swallow. Every grief I tidy up so no one else feels uncomfortable. Nothing is missed. Not one tremor of my he

I used to think obedience looked like movement…like wild steps into the unknown, like Abraham leaving, like Peter walking on water, like the rush of faith catching wind in your sails as you follow the voice that beckons, “Come.” But today… obedience looks a lot like stillness. A lot like staying. A lot like waking up in the same place with the same pain with the same unanswered prayers and the same four walls that echo with questions no one has answered yet. And I’m starting