Everything bears his evidence

There are mornings when I wake up and I can’t quite see Him, not in the ache that still lingers,

not in the empty chair that should’ve held laughter, not in the prayers that echo back in silence. But the light still spills through the curtains, soft and uninvited,

like mercy that refuses to forget my name.

And I realize,

I don’t have to see the sun to know it’s risen.

I see its fingerprints everywhere,

in the way the frost melts from the fence line,

in the way the light finds even the darkest corners of this tired room,

in the way warmth reaches my skin long before my eyes find the sky.

That’s how I believe in God.

Not because He stands before me, visible and tangible, but because everything else bears His evidence. The hope that somehow still breathes inside my chest.

The love that refuses to die, even in the graveyard of what was.

The strength that finds me in the ruin,

when I have none left of my own.

He is the quiet cause of every sunrise I’ve survived. The unseen hand steadying the trembling of my soul.

The reason I can still believe beauty exists,

even after the breaking.

So yes, I believe in Him.

Not because I see Him,

but because I see everything else.

And all of it…the ache, the glory, the ashes, the light, whispers the same truth:

He is.

Still.

Here.