No more tidy sentences

I used to be able to sum up my seasons in tidy lines.

A caption.

A quote.

A scripture taped on a mirror.

Something that made it all feel worth it, feel wrapped-up, and neat.

But now?

Now my life spills.

It bleeds into margins that once felt safe.

It stains the places I kept pristine.

It weeps in rooms I once danced in.

It’s messier. It’s heavier.

It’s holier somehow.

There are days I try to find the right words—but they don’t come.

Because what do you say when the grief doesn’t lessen, but you’ve deepened?

What do you say when the prayers still echo unanswered, but your trust has grown roots in the silence?

What do you say when the weight didn’t lift,

but you grew stronger shoulders beneath it?

Maybe there aren’t words for that.

Maybe that’s sacred ground where language dies and worship begins.

Maybe that’s where the groanings too deep for utterance take over.

Maybe that’s the kind of growth heaven notices,

when the world just keeps scrolling.

This year didn’t give me back what I lost.

It didn’t erase the ache or stitch up all the seams. But somewhere in the midst of the unraveling, I hope I became more like Him.

Less about pretending I’m fine.

More about pressing through anyway.

Less about “victory” as the world defines it.

More about clinging to the hem of His garment

when there’s nothing left in me to offer but faith.

This year, I saw parts of myself I didn’t know existed.

Not the pretty parts.

Not the filtered ones.

But the brave parts.

The parts that stayed when it would’ve been easier to run.

The parts that whispered “Jesus is still good”

when nothing else made sense.

And that’s what I’m carrying into the next page of this story.

Not resolution.

Not answers.

But resilience born of communion.

A heart that didn’t give up.

A soul that kept standing in worship even when bowed down in grief.

A life that no longer fits into neat sentences—

but fits into the hands of a Savior who still writes redemption

in the messiest chapters.

May that be enough.

May that be beautiful.

May that be what heaven calls faithful.