No one ever cared for me like Jesus

No one ever cared for me like Jesus.

Not when the nights stretched long and mercy felt thin.

Not when prayers came out broken, tangled in grief, more sob than sentence.

Still—He stayed.

His faithful hand has held me all this way.

Through seasons I didn’t choose.

Through losses I still don’t have language for.

Through the kind of pain that doesn’t announce itself loudly, but quietly reshapes a soul.

I can trace His fingerprints through my life

not by the absence of wounds,

but by the fact that I am still here,

still breathing, still clinging.

Held, even when I felt undone.

Carried, even when I swore I was walking alone.

Some days, I grieve the version of me

that thought faith would shield her from sorrow.

I grieve the prayers that were answered differently than I begged them to be.

I grieve the people I loved

who didn’t stay long enough.

But even here

His hand has not loosened its grip.

And when I’m old and gray,

when my hands tremble and my voice softens,

when all my days are numbered on this earth

and my body remembers every battle it survived, let it be known:

I was not sustained by ease.

I was not kept by comfort.

I was not rescued by answers.

Let it be known that I was held.

That when joy felt foreign and fragile,

when laughter came back slowly,

when hope had to be relearned,

it was found in Him alone.

Not in outcomes.

Not in timing.

Not in the world keeping its promises.

My joy was found in the One

who stayed when everything else left.

The One who held me together

when grief tried to convince me I was falling apart.

No one ever cared for me like Jesus.

And when my story is told—

when my days are done,

let that be the loudest truth left behind.