Jesus wins

I’ve heard it my whole life.

Jesus always wins.

It’s stitched into memory like an old Sunday school banner. Echoed in sermons.

Sung in songs.

But today?

Today I don’t feel like I’m on the winning side.

Today, it feels like everything is slipping through my fingers, and I can’t even name all that I’ve lost.

I’m not just losing.

I’m being crushed.

Like the weight of the world has collapsed on my chest and no one noticed.

Like the prayers I whispered never made it past the ceiling.

Like I showed up for the battle but forgot my armor. Or maybe, I just didn’t have the strength to lift my sword this time.

And I know the ending of the story.

I know the tomb is empty and the stone was rolled away. I know that death lost its sting and hell lost its grip.

I know He wins.

But what about when it feels like I’m the one losing?

When the enemy seems louder than the still small voice?

When the miracle didn’t come?

When the relationship fell apart?

When the diagnosis came back?

When the baby didn’t make it?

When the betrayal cut deep?

When hope feels like a fairy tale and joy is a stranger I used to know?

What about this moment?

And maybe…that’s where real faith begins.

Not in the shouting of the victory,

But in the groaning of the valley.

Not in the triumph of the mountaintop,

But in the clinging when I’m barely hanging on.

Because winning doesn’t always look like rising.

Sometimes it looks like remaining.

Like standing when everything in me wants to collapse. Like believing when belief feels like bleeding.

And maybe, just maybe,

This place where I feel like I’m losing

Is the sacred ground where He’s still winning,

In me.

Because the Cross didn’t look like a win either.

It looked like blood.

Like silence.

Like shame.

Like the enemy laughing and the sky going dark.

It looked like loss.

But it was victory in disguise.

So even now, even when my soul feels threadbare and tired, I will choose to believe

That Jesus always wins.

Even when it looks like loss.

Even when it sounds like silence.

Even when it feels like defeat.

And maybe I’m not losing.

Maybe I’m just in the part of the story where it hurts before it heals.

And He is still good.

Even now.

And He has already won.