This side

This side of eternity

is the only time we will ever get to worship Him through pain.

Not past it.

Not despite it.

But through it.

In Heaven, we will fall to our knees because we will see Him, face to face.

We will be so undone by the glory of His presence, so consumed with joy, so overwhelmed by perfect love,

that worship will rise effortlessly like breath in our lungs.

Tears will no longer burn our cheeks.

Grief will no longer ache in our bones.

There will be no resistance left,

no darkness to wrestle through,

no heaviness that makes praise feel like lifting stones with broken hands.

But here…

here we get to choose.

Here, in the ache of silence and the sting of disappointment, we get to whisper “You are good” with voices cracked from crying.

Here, when we can’t trace His hand and can barely hold on, we get to say “Still, I will praise You.”

And what a gift that is.

To love Him when it’s not easy.

To lift hands when they tremble.

To sing when it feels like a lullaby through clenched teeth.

To worship not because we feel like it, but because He is worthy.

To stand in the ashes and still call Him holy.

This is the only place, this side of the veil, where faith costs us something.

Where we can offer Him the kind of worship we’ll never again have the chance to give:

A sacrifice.

A yes in the dark.

A hallelujah through tears.

I don’t want to waste it.

I don’t want to wish it away,

begging for escape,

numbing my ache with distractions

when this is the one place where worship is proof of love.

Where obedience is born in fire.

Where faith is refined like gold.

I want Heaven to look back on my wilderness and call it beautiful.

So today, when nothing makes sense,

when the weight feels unbearable,

when the tears won’t stop and the prayers feel unanswered, I lift my voice.

I choose Him again.

Because this is the only chance I’ll ever have

to say, “I still believe,”

while it still costs something to say it.