FOR HE ALONE IS WORTHY

There has not been a chapter of my life—no valley too low, no mountaintop too high—that hasn’t whispered this truth back to me: God is exactly as good as the Bible says He is. Not just on the days when the sun warmed my skin and everything bloomed in color. But in the nights when everything fell apart and I felt like I was crumbling too. When prayers came out in groans, when silence stretched so long it began to echo, when I thought surely I had been forgotten…even then, I fo

I’ve heard it my whole life. Jesus always wins. It’s stitched into memory like an old Sunday school banner. Echoed in sermons. Sung in songs. But today? Today I don’t feel like I’m on the winning side. Today, it feels like everything is slipping through my fingers, and I can’t even name all that I’ve lost. I’m not just losing. I’m being crushed. Like the weight of the world has collapsed on my chest and no one noticed. Like the prayers I whispered never made it past the ceili

I used to believe that walking with God meant having some sort of map, if not the full route, at least the next step, the next door, the next green light. But now? I am standing in the fog. Everything feels blurry, uncertain, hidden behind veils I cannot lift. I reach out for direction and feel nothing but empty air. And yet, He is here. This season of unknowing is not a punishment. It’s a purification. He is not withholding my next step to be cruel. He is slowing me down to

We whisper it at funerals. “He was such a good preacher.” “He affected my life so much.” “He was so good to my family.” “He was always there when I needed him.” “He walked with the Lord.” “What an example he set.” But how tragic that we wait until the casket is closed to say what should have been spoken while they were still alive to hear it. We choke back our gratitude while they walk among us, afraid that our honor might look “bad.” We silence our praise lest someone accuse

I clapped for them again today. Loud, joyful, sincere. Even as my own dreams gathered more dust on the shelf of “someday.” Even as I felt the familiar ache, that quiet, hollow echo in the soul that wonders if heaven has forgotten my name. But later, alone, I whispered: “God… what about me?” It wasn’t bitterness. It was longing. Not jealousy. Just that ache of someone who’s been planting faithfully in a field no one visits. The kind of ache that doesn’t scream. It just lingers

Jesus didn’t heal everyone. I’ve wrestled with that truth in the quiet places no one sees, in the hospital hallways where prayers echoed unanswered, in the graveside silences where I begged Him to come late like He did for Lazarus… and still believed He could. He didn’t always stop. He didn’t always speak. Sometimes… He just walked by. Sometimes the thorn wasn’t removed…. And that truth used to ache in me like a wound I couldn’t name. I had this idea that if He could, He shou

There is a sacred space that exists between the outstretched arms of the Savior. It is not cold or sterile or far away. It is not reserved for the perfect or the proud. It is carved in the exact shape of me. Of you. Of every shattered, sleepless, silently breaking soul that thought maybe this time, I won’t make it through. It is the size of the nights I couldn’t breathe from the weight of grief. The shape of prayers I whispered but didn’t believe would make it past the ceilin

I’m starting to see it now. All the detours I once despised. All the closed doors that felt like rejection. All the waiting seasons that left me hollow and aching. They were never wasted. Not a single tear. Not a single no. Not a single night I wept into the silence, begging God for just a sliver of clarity. He was doing more than I could ask or imagine, but He was doing it in the dark. Because the Lord has always had more in mind for me than I ever dared to imagine for mysel

There were nights I swore I wouldn’t make it through till morning… nights where my own heartbeat felt like a countdown, where the silence was too loud, where it hurt just to still be here. There were mornings I could not recognize the hollow-eyed stranger staring back at me in the mirror…not the girl I once knew, not the one who used to laugh freely, dream loudly, believe easily. There were moments I was certain I was too fractured to ever be pieced back together again, that

What do I do when Haman isn’t hung? When the gallows still stand in my enemy’s yard, and justice feels like a far-off whisper instead of a mighty roar? When he walks free and proud and untouched, while I sit in sackcloth, choking on prayers that feel like they’ve gone unanswered? What do I do when the sea doesn’t part? When Pharaoh is breathing hot and heavy down my back, and every footstep forward feels like one more toward drowning? When I’ve stretched out my hand, but the

Love is not nodding at the ache and pretending it is wholeness. It is not looking at a wound and naming it healing just because we are afraid of the truth. Love kneels in the ashes and dares to say, this is not how it’s meant to end. Love does not sanctify decay. It does not baptize the poison just because the starving soul calls it relief. If I saw a hollow-eyed friend collapsing from hunger, I would not hand them arsenic and call it mercy, even if, for a fleeting moment, it

My Shepherd will defend me. There are nights I feel like prey, cornered by shadows I cannot name, hounded by accusations that were never true, hunted by battles I never chose to fight. The wolves linger at the edge of my soul’s trembling, and every breath feels like a prayer caught in my throat. But even here, in the thicket of fear and the bruise of betrayal, I remember: I have a Shepherd. Not a distant overseer. Not a passive observer. But a defender. A Shepherd who does no

I am learning how to breathe in a world that split in two. There is the life I wake up to, and the one I still grieve in my dreams. The one I hold, and the one I held. The one that is, and the one that should have been. Every morning, I open my eyes and return to this timeline, this version of reality where something is missing… someone is missing. And yet, there’s another version of me that still walks in the garden of before. Who doesn’t flinch when certain names are spoken

Some days…I am Jacob. Not the Jacob draped in victory, but the one trembling in the dark, dust-streaked and hollow-eyed, face pressed into the dirt of desperation. The one whose name had not yet been changed. The one who wrestled, not out of strength, but out of ache. I’ve grabbed hold of God with trembling fingers, not out of defiance, but out of survival. Out of grief. Out of a holy kind of stubbornness. “I will not let Thee go,” I whisper, “not until You bless me. Not unti

I used to beg God for safety. Safety felt holy. It felt right. It felt like the proof of His presence, like a hedge of protection meant He was pleased with me, like the absence of pain meant I was favored. I didn’t want much. Just for the storms to calm. For the ground beneath my feet to stop shaking. For the tears to dry. For the ache in my chest to finally, finally let up. But the storms didn’t cease. The ground cracked wide open. The tears came like tides. And the ache? It

Some call him the weeping prophet. Jeremiah. Chosen. Burdened. Misunderstood. His tears weren’t a weakness. They were a calling. He didn’t cry because he lacked faith. He cried because he carried it so fiercely. So honestly. So painfully real. And sometimes… I think I know what it means to wear that mantle. I never asked for it. I never wanted to be the weeper. But grief, like a river, carved out places in me I didn’t know existed. It hollowed out my laughter and filled the g

November. There’s something about this month that aches. It doesn’t shout, but it sighs, low and long. The air turns sharp, the light grows scarce, and the calendar begins to whisper that the year is closing its eyes. And maybe… maybe you look around and think, “This is not where I thought I’d be.” You thought you’d be further. Healed. Happier. You thought the breakthrough would’ve come by now. You thought the ashes would’ve been exchanged for beauty, not added to the growing

2 Samuel 11:1 “And it came to pass, after the year was expired, at the time when kings go forth to battle, that David sent Joab, and his servants with him, and all Israel; and they destroyed the children of Ammon, and besieged Rabbah. But David tarried still at Jerusalem.” There’s something about this verse that hits differently when you’re weary. When the armor feels heavier than it used to. When your prayers echo off heaven’s ceiling, and you start wondering if maybe it’s o

There are no clocks in the waiting room of Heaven. No windows to tell you how long the night has lasted. No calendar to count how many prayers have gone unanswered. This is where I am. Not in the place of breakthrough. Not in the place of clarity. But in the hollow hush of “not yet.” I am sitting in the space between the promise and the fulfillment, and my hands are empty. My heart, heavy. My prayers, tear-stained. I used to think He was only the God of miracles. The God of o

I used to think being highly favored meant being chosen for something easy, something beautiful, something that would make sense in the end. I thought favor looked like doors swinging wide open, like blessings spilling over, like everything finally coming together. But then I learned what it really meant. highly favored doesn’t mean special. It doesn’t mean strong, or qualified, or deserving. In the Greek, it means to be completely surrounded and covered by grace. To be wrapp