I trusted you

Lord…I trusted You.

Not halfway. Not with one eye open and one hand clutching control—

I trusted You with everything.

And still, this happened.

This wound. This loss. This story I never would have written. They say You have a plan,

but if this is the plan, I hate it.

I hate the way it ripped the breath from my lungs, the way it made me feel small and foolish for believing You would spare me this.

I hate that I prayed until my throat was raw,

and You still let the darkness touch me.

I feel abandoned—

like You turned Your face when I needed You most. And all I feel now is the weight…

the crushing, suffocating weight

of what You didn’t stop.

They tell me You’re good,

but I don’t know what to do with that word anymore. Good feels like a cruel riddle when I’m holding the ashes

of what I thought You’d protect.

My faith feels like a house after the fire—

charred beams still standing,

but every room filled with smoke.

I walk through it and wonder

if I can live here again.

But somewhere deep—

far beneath the noise of my rage,

deeper than the pulse of my grief—

there’s still a faint heartbeat.

A whisper that refuses to die.

It says You have not left me.

It says You are still the God who holds the knife and the healing in the same hand,

and that somehow, both are love.

And maybe trust isn’t a feeling at all.

Maybe it’s the choice to stand here in the ruin

and not run from You.

Maybe it’s unclenching my fists when all I want is to grip the shards of what I lost.

Maybe it’s looking at the wound You didn’t stop

and asking You to redeem it instead of erase it.

So here I am.

Not with pretty words.

Not with answers.

But with this:

my raw, shaking heart.

I place it in Your hands,

because even now—

even here—

I can’t think of any safer place for it to be.

My child,

I heard every word you didn’t say.

I felt every tear you didn’t have the strength to cry. I have sat in the silent spaces between your prayers, where your faith trembled and your hope fell limp, and I did not turn away.

You think I left you—

but I never moved.

Even when the pain came,

even when the shadows swallowed the light you knew, I was there in the dark with you.

Not watching from afar—

weeping with you, holding you,

bleeding with you.

I did not stop this,

and I know you do not understand.

But I did not stop being good.

Your mind cannot see it yet,

but your spirit will one day testify—

this wound will not have the final word.

What you lost will not end in loss.

Every thread of pain is being rewoven

into something that will breathe life again.

I am not the author of cruelty.

I am the One who steps into the fire with you

and walks you out without the smell of smoke on your clothes.

I am the One who stands between you and the weight that should have crushed you.

I am the One who refuses to let the grave keep what belongs to Me.

You feel abandoned—

but you are held.

You feel forsaken—

but I have carved your name into My hands.

I will not drop you. I will not lose you.

You will see goodness again—

and it will not be a diluted, half-hearted goodness, but the kind that roars through the valley and silences the lie that I was ever absent.

I know you don’t know how to trust Me right now.

That’s okay—

I will hold your trust for you until you’re ready to take it back.

Just stay with Me.

Even here.

Even in the ruin.

Especially in the ruin.

Because resurrection never comes to those who run from the tomb.

And when I raise this—

when I raise you—

you will not only see My plan,

you will love Me for it.