If you had been here

“If You had been here…”

That’s what Mary said. That’s what Martha cried. That’s what I whisper in the night when no one sees the ache.

If You had been here…

The child wouldn’t have died.

The diagnosis wouldn’t have come.

The door wouldn’t have shut.

The dream wouldn’t have collapsed.

The betrayal wouldn’t have cut so deep.

The waiting wouldn’t be so long.

The silence wouldn’t feel like a verdict.

Where were You, Lord?

Why did You wait?

Why did You let the sickness run its full course when You could have stopped it at a word? Why did You allow the stone to be rolled over the tomb of my hope, sealed, final, cold?

You could have come running.

You could have healed from a distance like You did for the centurion’s servant.

You could have spoken life into the grave before death ever touched the body.

You could have…

But You didn’t.

And it breaks me.

And yet… somehow, even in the unraveling, I find You still come.

Not always early.

Not always the way I beg for.

But You come.

And when You do, You weep.

You don’t scold.

You don’t shame.

You stand in the very place of loss and You cry with us.

The Son of God, crying.

Not because You were powerless to prevent it… but because You were present in the pain.

You are never absent.

And then, after the weeping, You do something none of us saw coming.

You speak.

Not just comfort. Not just hope.

You command.

You stand in front of the thing that stole everything, and You call it out by name.

Lazarus, come forth.

And life obeys.

Death listens to Your voice. Tombs tremble. Grave clothes unravel. What was buried rises.

So I hold onto that today.

When my own heart says, “If You had just been here…” I remember that You still come, even when the grave seems to have won.

You are not late. You are not absent.

You are the Resurrection and the Life.

And You are here.

Even in the silence.

Even in the “delay.”

Even in the devastation.

You are not afraid of death.

You are not overwhelmed by time.

You are not undone by my weeping.

You step into it all, and You redeem.

So I wait.

I weep.

But I will also believe.

Because even if it’s been four days,

Even if it’s been four years…

Even if I feel forgotten…

The grave is not the end of the story when You are the One writing it.