Even here, he is I AM

I’m not over it.

I’ve just learned to carry it differently now—

like a stone once sharp in my chest,

now smooth from the grace of time and tears.

It still lives in me,

but not as a wound—

as a well.

A place where sorrow and strength

gather hands and draw water for the journey.

Once, it crushed me—

now it carves me.

It hollows out space for God to fill

with things I never would’ve known

without the breaking.

God didn’t ask me to get over it.

He asked me to walk with Him through it.

And so I did—limping, weeping, aching.

And somewhere along the path,

what once buried me became the soil

for something sacred to grow.

Some days I still ache without warning.

Some nights I still cry in the dark.

But I don’t drown there anymore.

Because I met God in the deep.

And He didn’t tell me to move on.

He sat with me in the ashes,

and whispered, “Even here, I am.”

This is not the absence of grief—

it is the presence of grace.