Come further

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, syllable by syllable.

Some days, I confess, I want to close the book entirely.

Set it down.

Tell God I am tired of suspense.

Tired of unanswered questions.

Tired of endings that came too soon

and promises that feel like they’re taking the long way home.

And yet,

there it is again.

That quiet pull in my spirit.

Come further up. Come further in.

As if Heaven knows

I’m tempted to stop reading

right before the miracle.

As if Love understands

how grief narrows the imagination

until all I can see

is what has already been lost.

But what if this ache

is not evidence that the story is cruel—

what if it’s proof

that the story is unfinished?

What if the greatest chapters

are not behind me,

but ahead,

waiting for a version of me

who has been cracked open by sorrow

and therefore made capable

of holding more glory than before?

I am learning that hope does not mean pretending the pain didn’t happen.

Hope means carrying the pain

and still daring to turn the page.

So today, with trembling hands,

I choose to read on.

I choose to believe

that Author of this story

has not lost His way,

that He is not careless with my heart,

that no chapter has been wasted.

If my eyes are red,

if my faith limps,

if my voice quivers when I say it—

let it still be said:

I will come further up.

I will come further in.

Because somewhere beyond this grief,

beyond this long night,

the greatest story

has yet to be read.