Sometimes I’m angry

Lord, sometimes I’m angry that this is my story now. This chapter is one I never wanted to read, much less live inside. I did not choose it, and I do not know how to breathe here, let alone belong here. It feels foreign, sharp-edged, and cruel—like walking barefoot through shards of glass that were never meant to be in my path.

I find myself crying out: Why this? Why me? Why now? I keep looking for an exit door, some hidden escape route, but everywhere I turn the walls stand firm. And I am left in a place I never wished to stand.

But here I am, Lord. And if You are God at all, then You are still God here.

Even in the place I hate. Even in the story I didn’t choose. Even in Gethsemane.

So where are You?

Show me Your fingerprints on the jagged edges. Whisper to me in the hollow places where my soul feels cracked and leaking. Remind me that even if I did not choose this road, You did not abandon me to walk it alone.

You are the Author who writes redemptive endings out of broken beginnings. You are the Potter who refuses to throw away the clay, even when it feels shattered beyond repair. You are the Shepherd who does not lose a single sheep, not even the wandering, angry, bleeding one.

So come find me, Lord, in the middle of the wilderness I never wanted to call home. Come and sit with me inside the ache, until my tears turn into prayers, and my anger melts into surrender.

If this is my story now, then breathe Your presence into every line. Let my wounds become altars. Let my lament become a psalm. Let this unchosen season become the very place where I finally, truly, unmistakably find You.

And if I must live here, Lord, then let me not live without You.