Even if

What do I do when Haman isn’t hung?

When the gallows still stand in my enemy’s yard, and justice feels like a far-off whisper instead of a mighty roar?

When he walks free and proud and untouched, while I sit in sackcloth, choking on prayers that feel like they’ve gone unanswered?

What do I do when the sea doesn’t part?

When Pharaoh is breathing hot and heavy down my back, and every footstep forward feels like one more toward drowning?

When I’ve stretched out my hand, but the waters stay stubborn, silent, and the rescue I was promised seems to stall in the waiting?

What do I do when the pool stirs and healing breaks out all around me, but no one notices the one still lying there… me?

When hope is just out of reach…again….and I whisper, “But Lord, I have no man…”

What do I do when the tomb stays sealed?

When it feels like resurrection is reserved for everyone else, and I’m still sitting in the silence of Saturday…

No stone rolled away. No voice calling “Lazarus, come forth.” Just linen graveclothes and stillness and waiting.

What do I do when I don’t walk on water?

When I step out and all I do is sink—

When all I see are waves, and all I feel is fear, and faith seems like a memory more than a present strength?

What do I do when I am losing on every side?

When the weapons that were formed against me… actually look like they’re prospering?

When I try to praise and persevere, but my hands are trembling and my heart is tired and I can’t find the fight in me?

I want to scream.

I want to run.

I want to question every promise I’ve ever clung to, to tear down the altars I built in faith,

to say, “Maybe He’s not coming. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe deliverance is for other people.”

But here’s what I choose to do:

I stay.

I wait.

I cry tears that say, “Even if You don’t…”

I sit in the ashes and still lift my eyes.

I let the unanswered become altars.

I let the silence teach me how to listen.

I let the pain crack me open until the oil begins to flow.

Because somewhere deep in my soul, beneath the ache and the anguish and the ache of unmet expectations,

I still believe He is who He says He is.

Even when Haman hasn’t been hung.

Even when Pharaoh is close.

Even when the pool is crowded.

Even when the tomb stays sealed.

Even when my name hasn’t been called.

Even when the weapons hit hard.

He is still the same God.

The God who sees.

The God who weeps.

The God who waits with me in the middle.

The God who knows how to redeem everything, even when I don’t yet see the redemption.

Because faith isn’t proven when the sea splits or the walls fall.

Faith is proven in the waiting,

in the not-yet, in the “I believe, help Thou mine unbelief.”

Even if the miracle delays,

even if answer looks different,

even if the story doesn’t read the way I hoped,

God is still God.

And that is enough.