I don’t know…

I did not know

how much I hoped in this dream

until it died.

I thought I had braced myself.

I told myself I was prepared for disappointment,

that I had learned the language of letting go,

that I knew how to hold things loosely before God.

But when it slipped from my hands,

when the breath left it,

I realized how much of my heart had been quietly living there.

Grief has a way of revealing what hope was hiding.

It exposes the prayers I never named out loud,

the future I tiptoed toward in my thoughts,

the “maybe” I pretended wasn’t shaping my days.

I didn’t know I had built a small altar in my chest for this dream, until I was standing over its ruins,

asking heaven why it had to burn.

The tears came uninvited.

Heavy.

Endless.

Tears that felt wasteful,

as if sorrow itself were a failure of faith.

But they kept coming anyway,

spilling over in the quiet,

pooling in the places where words couldn’t survive.

And still…

if my God is good,

and I believe He is,

if He is sovereign, steady, unthreatened by my breaking, then these tears cannot be meaningless.

He does not collect them absentmindedly.

He does not watch them fall with indifference.

Every one is counted.

Every one is seen.

Every one bears witness to a heart that dared to hope, to believe, to love something enough to mourn it.

Maybe the dream had to die

for something truer to live.

Maybe this ache is not the end of the story

but the deep plowing of the soul—

the kind that hurts because it makes room.

Room for resurrection.

Room for a faith no longer built on outcomes,

but on who He is when the outcome breaks me.

I don’t know yet what will rise from this loss.

I only know that God does not waste suffering.

He does not ask me to bleed for nothing.

If He is in control,

then even this grief is not chaos—

it is a holy interruption.

So I weep.

And I wait.

And I keep whispering through the tears:

You are still good.

You are still God.

And somehow, even here,

in the grave of a dream I loved,

I am being held.