Beauty in ashes….

Lord…How long will You let me wander in this fog? How long will You let me stay here,

clutching shattered prayers in trembling hands,

while silence echoes louder than thunder through my soul?

I didn’t ask for this grief.

I didn’t ask to carry sorrow like a second skin,

woven into every breath, every memory, every morning I wake.

I didn’t sign up to be the one who has to find beauty in ashes.

I don’t want to be resilient.

I don’t want to be refined in fire.

I don’t want to be someone’s example of how to suffer well.

I just want rest.

Real rest.

Not the kind people speak of with hollow eyes and quick clichés,

but the kind that sinks into bones,

the kind that hushes the ache that never sleeps.

I want relief.

I want the bleeding to stop.

I want to be held—not hurried, not hushed,

just held.

Cradled in the safety of Your arms without being told to stand up again.

Without the whispered pressure to “rise and shine” when all I have left is dust and questions.

God, are You still listening?

Have my groans gotten lost in the crowd of voices You’re attending to?

Have You grown tired of my tears?

Do You still draw near to the brokenhearted?

Because I need You now.

Not the Sunday-morning version of You.

Not the sermon notes and the memory verses.

I need the God who wept.

The One who stayed in the garden through the night. The One who didn’t rush Lazarus out of the tomb but wept beside the ones who mourned him.

I need that God.

The One who doesn’t flinch at my anger,

who doesn’t shame my sorrow,

who won’t abandon me in this in-between.

If healing is coming, let your work begin now.

If hope is near, let it be gentle.

I’m not asking for miracles right now.

Just for You.

And maybe that’s the greatest miracle of all.

Please remind me I’m not alone.

Even here.

Even now.

Even like this.

I may feel Lost—but I’m never lost to You.

Weary—but not without worth.

Bruised—but still being built.

Held—completely, tenderly, eternally.

And maybe—just maybe—

this fog is thinning.

Maybe the dawn is closer than it feels.

Maybe Your hand has never left mine.

Maybe, even in all of this…

You’re still writing a story of redemption,

and the next chapter is filled with light.

So I’ll keep breathing.

I’ll keep reaching.

And I’ll believe—however weakly—

that You are near.

You are kind.

And You are not finished with me yet.