I’m not behind

I keep thinking about the tomb.

How He stood there,

the stone still sealed,

the grief still thick in the air,

the finality still heavy on everyone’s breath.

He knew what was coming.

He knew resurrection was only moments away.

He knew death would loosen its grip

at the sound of His voice.

And still,

He wept.

Not performative tears.

Not rushed, apologetic sorrow.

But holy grief.

Present grief.

Unashamed tears falling into the dust of loss.

He did not skip the ache

just because a miracle was imminent.

He did not rush the mourning

just because He held power in His hands.

He let His heart break,

even knowing it would soon be mended.

So maybe this is my permission.

Permission to sit in the ache

without calling it unbelief.

Permission to grieve without rushing myself

into a version of healing that looks impressive to others.

Permission to cry at the tomb

even when resurrection is promised.

I am not behind.

I am not failing faith

because my heart still feels shattered.

I am not weak

because the tears keep coming.

If He—who held life itself—

paused long enough to grieve,

then my sorrow is not a delay,

it is human.

It is holy ground.

Grief does not mean I have forgotten the promise.

It means I loved deeply.

It means something mattered.

It means my heart is still alive.

Miracles can be minutes away

and tears can still be right on time.

So I will let them fall.

I will not shame my sorrow.

I will not rush my healing

to prove I trust Him.

I will trust Him here—

in the weeping,

at the tomb,

with a heart in pieces—

believing that the same voice

that allows my tears

will one day call life out of everything

I thought was lost.

And when resurrection comes,

it will not erase these tears.

It will redeem them.