Maybe faith is not pretending that grief is gone

Sometimes clarity and grief pull up chairs at the same table. They do not cancel one another out—they coexist, staring me in the face,

forcing me to sip from both cups in the same breath.

I know where I stand in this life.

I can trace the path I’ve walked,

I can point to the grace that carried me here.

But I still grieve the roads I never set foot on,

the versions of myself that never bloomed,

the lives I will never live.

It feels like burying a thousand invisible funerals inside my own chest.

I know who loves me, who shows up, who holds me. But still, I mourn the ones who turned their backs. I feel the ache of the empty chairs,

the conversations that never happened,

the apologies that never came.

Love surrounds me, yes—

but loss whispers loud.

And I know who God is.

I know He is able, sovereign, unshaken.

I know He holds the galaxies in His palms

and not one sparrow falls outside His sight.

But sometimes I still grieve what He did not do.

The prayers that never bloomed into answers.

The miracles that never split the silence.

The healing that never came in the way I begged for.

And that grief feels dangerous,

like holy ground and broken glass all at once.

Yet perhaps this is the mystery of faith—

to sit in the tension where clarity and grief hold hands.

To admit both truths without running from either.

To weep over what was withheld,

while still bowing before the One who withholds nothing of Himself.

To say, “I believe,” even with tears blurring the confession.

To carry both gratitude and lament,

like oil and water swirling in the same vessel,

and trust that God calls it worship.

Because maybe faith is not pretending the grief is gone. Maybe it’s daring to bring it to the table,

setting it beside the clarity,

and saying, “Even here, You are worthy.”