FOR HE ALONE IS WORTHY

You said You’re Emmanuel—God with us. But what do I do with the ache when “with” feels like a lie my heart can’t swallow? When the world keeps turning, but mine has stopped…and I’m standing still in the ruins of what used to be. I didn’t feel You there when they died. I didn’t feel You when betrayal pierced my ribs like a blade I never saw coming. I didn’t feel You when I fell apart, when I screamed into the hollow of my pillow, and begged for You to make the pain make sense.

Today, I remembered that the Savior wept first. Before I ever did. Before my chest ached with the hollow echo of goodbye, before I sat at the grave of what I loved, He stood at one too, and the Word made flesh broke down in tears. He, the Resurrection and the Life, knew what was moments away. He knew that in only a breath, the stone would roll back, and death would bow its trembling head. And still… He wept. That comforts me. Because if the Son of God, the One who held eterni

Today, I sat with the ache again. Not the loud kind that makes you weep uncontrollably…but the quiet kind. The kind that settles in your bones and makes you feel like everything inside you is bruised. The kind that walks with you into every room, lays beside you in bed, and whispers, “This is too much. You are too much. This grief is too heavy.” But then… I remembered the cup. The one He didn’t flinch from. Not the one filled with glory and ease, but the one filled with sorro

There are mornings when I wake up and I can’t quite see Him, not in the ache that still lingers, not in the empty chair that should’ve held laughter, not in the prayers that echo back in silence. But the light still spills through the curtains, soft and uninvited, like mercy that refuses to forget my name. And I realize, I don’t have to see the sun to know it’s risen. I see its fingerprints everywhere, in the way the frost melts from the fence line, in the way the light finds

Hell has been loud lately. Loud in the empty rooms. Loud in the cold silence. Loud in the quiet prayers that seem to hit the ceiling and shatter like glass. And still, I lift my hands. Not because it doesn’t hurt. Not because I understand. Not because I’ve found the miracle I begged for. But because this worship is the one thing hell cannot steal. This is sacred defiance. This is war without a sword, fire without a flame, faith that refuses to be buried with the rest of the b

The Lord gave. He really did. He gave me that laughter. That late-night whisper. That smile. That soft place to land. That moment I didn’t know would be my last with them. He gave it. And it was beautiful. And now it’s gone. But it was mine once, even if only for a breath in eternity. And yet, I mourn as if the gift never came, because I’ve stared too long at the empty space where it once stood. I’ve memorized the silence. I’ve traced the shape of the ache so many times that

If God allowed it… then why does it feel like it is undoing me? I keep turning the pieces of this ache over in my hands, wondering if I misheard Him, misunderstood Him, misplaced Him somewhere between the breaking and the breath I’m trying to catch. Yet there is this whisper threaded through the wreckage: If God allowed it, then God is using it. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I know Him. And if God is using it, then God is in it. Not standing far off. Not observing

“You are handling it so well.” They say it with soft eyes, like it’s a compliment. Like strength is the thing I’m most desperate to prove. I nod. I smile the kind of smile that feels like thin ice over deep water. But when the house grows quiet, when the world finally stops pulling at the frayed edges of me, I turn off the lights and whisper their name into the dark. Just to hear it. Just to know it still belongs somewhere. Just to prove it didn’t disappear with the life I lo

I read about Mephibosheth again. That broken man who never walked. The one who lived his life carried by others, lowered expectations wrapped around him like old, familiar bandages. Yet somehow…he still found himself sitting at the King’s table. And I can’t stop thinking about how he didn’t earn that place. He didn’t stride in confidently. He didn’t arrive whole. He didn’t come healed, fixed, impressive, or steady. He was still lame when the King called his name. Still wounde

You can’t pray for overflow when you keep living like God only gives leftovers. I’ve been asking God to fill me, to restore me, to pour out abundance, but I have been living with the posture of someone who expects scraps. Someone who tiptoes around blessing as if it is too extravagant for their name to be on it. Grief has a way of shrinking your expectations. Loss whispers that lavishness isn’t for you. Pain convinces you to hold out your hands only halfway….as though God mig

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