If God allowed it

If God allowed it…

then why does it feel like it is undoing me?

I keep turning the pieces of this ache over in my hands, wondering if I misheard Him, misunderstood Him, misplaced Him somewhere between the breaking and the breath I’m trying to catch. Yet there is this whisper threaded through the wreckage:

If God allowed it, then God is using it.

I don’t know how.

I don’t know when.

But I know Him.

And if God is using it, then God is in it.

Not standing far off.

Not observing from a safe distance.

Not waiting for me to “get over this” so He can return.

No…in it.

In the ashes.

In the silence.

In the nights I can’t sleep and the mornings I don’t want to rise.

In the questions I am almost too afraid to ask.

In the parts of me that still hope He sees me struggling not to drown.

And if God is in it…

then goodness, somehow, already has its hands on this sorrow.

Goodness is already moving quietly beneath the surface.

Goodness is already unfolding like dawn, slow, soft, sure, even when all I see is the dark.

But tonight, if I’m honest, I still feel the weight of what I lost. I still feel the hollow places grief carved into me.

And it is here, in the rawness, that I tell Him again…I don’t understand this road, Lord.

But I refuse to walk it without You.

Maybe that’s where faith becomes something deeper than answers, when all I have left is trust in the God who steps into the fire with me.

The God who writes resurrection stories in the very soil that once swallowed hope whole.

The God who has never wasted a wound.

Not one.

If He allowed it…

He is using it.

If He is using it…

He is in it.

And if He is in it…

then this is not the end of the story,

no matter how final it feels.

Goodness is already unfolding.

And one day, when the smoke clears,

I will see that He was here…

in every tear,

in every tremor of faith,

in every breath I thought would break me.

He was here,

and He was working,

and not one moment was wasted.