I’ll be honest…

I’ll be honest.

There are days I struggle to pray through the ache of my own questions.

Why them and not me?

I’ve asked it quietly.

I’ve asked it angrily.

I’ve asked it while smiling in the presence of others, while dying a little more inside at every celebration that wasn’t mine.

They get the gift.

I get the silence.

They got the open door.

I get the hallway.

They get the answer.

I get the waiting room floor.

And Lord… I clapped.

I cheered.

But secretly—I bled.

I’ve served You, haven’t I?

I’ve tried to be faithful.

I’ve fasted, wept, sown in tears.

I’ve given and forgiven and showed up when it cost me everything.

Surely You saw.

Surely You counted.

Surely You measured.

But Heaven does not pay wages.

And I finally saw it.

I had been standing at the window of someone else’s miracle

like a worker at payday, waiting for my shift to be acknowledged.

But grace does not clock in.

Mercy does not write checks.

And love does not owe me what it freely gave to another.

He reminded me of the elder son,

working the fields of his father’s house,

doing everything right, yet missing the joy of simply being a son.

“All that I have is thine,” the Father had said.

But the son didn’t want presence—he wanted proof.

And so did I.

I wanted proof that I was seen.

That I was chosen.

That my obedience would be rewarded too.

That my sacrifice would one day feel like favor.

But then He laid His hand on my weary, jealous heart.

“Would you rather be paid in predictable wages… or loved with wild, untamed grace?”

And it broke me.

Because if He had given me only what I deserved…

I’d have nothing.

No mercy.

No calling.

No breath in these lungs.

No second chances.

No story worth telling.

So here I am.

Still sore.

Still longing.

Still aching in places no one claps for.

But healed in a place far deeper.

Because the truth is—

grace can’t be earned,

and favor isn’t fair.

But He is.

He is good.

And I trust that His gifts don’t diminish me.

They define Him.

A generous Father.

A wise Giver.

A rewarder of those who seek Him, not just what’s in His hand.

So let them be blessed.

Let them run.

Let them rise.

And let me stay here in the field—

joyfully sowing, even if I never reap the same.

Because I am not unloved.

I am not unseen.

And I am not unpaid.

I have Him.

And He is enough.

Let this be a mirror for the one who has served long and waited long, and wondered if God has forgotten.

He hasn’t.

He just doesn’t pay in wages.

He gives in love.

And love never runs out.

I don’t need wages.

I don’t need my turn.

I don’t even need understanding.

I need Him.

And He is still miner