Abba Father

Abba, Father.

I say it slowly, like a confession my heart is still learning to believe.

Not polished. Not loud.

Just barely breathed between tears.

Abba.

Not distant God.

Not disappointed Judge.

Not arms crossed, waiting for me to get it right.

Abba, the One I run to when words fail,

when faith feels bruised,

when my prayers sound more like groans than sentences.

Father.

Strong enough to hold what I cannot carry.

Holy enough to remain God.

Near enough to kneel beside me on the floor.

I think about Jesus whispering it in the garden?

sweat like blood, soul crushed under the weight of what was coming.

He didn’t reach for religious language.

He reached for relationship.

Abba.

And suddenly I realize—

this word isn’t spoken from strength,

it’s spoken from surrender.

It’s what you say when you don’t know how it will end, but you trust Who you’re placing your hope in.

Abba, Father,

I don’t understand this season.

I don’t like this ache.

I don’t know why the silence has lasted this long.

But I am still Yours.

Still held.

Still claimed.

I am not begging at the door of heaven,

I am crying from inside the house.

The Spirit in me knows what my mouth struggles to say. And somehow, even in the breaking,

my heart still whispers the bravest prayer I have:

Abba.

I trust You here too.

Aramaic definition-

“Abba, Father” means:

“God, You are holy and powerful—

but You are also mine.

I am safe with You.”