Until feelings follow faith

It’s almost laughable how effortlessly I can summon scripture when someone else needs it.

How the right words seem to spill from my lips like oil, soothing wounds I didn’t cause.

People tell me I have a gift — that I’m good with words, that I carry burdens and show up when it matters most.

And maybe I do. Maybe I am.

But what of these quiet hours, when nobody is knocking at my heart’s door for comfort?

When the house sleeps and I’m left alone with the ghosts I keep stuffing in closets for “later”?

Tonight they all creep out, shameless —

The unanswered questions that mock me in the dark, The sting of betrayals that still bleed beneath thin scars,

The prayers I’ve whispered a thousand times that seem to vanish into an indifferent sky,

The doors I’ve beat my fists bloody against that still refuse to budge, The loneliness that no crowded room can touch.

Here — here is where my eloquence fails me.

Where all the wisdom I’ve poured over others like balm curdles on my own tongue.

I try to remind myself:

“All things work together for good…”

But in the hush of midnight, that feels like a lullaby I’ve outgrown.

I know it’s true. I do.

Romans 8:28 is still etched into my bones.

But tonight, my heart is slow to believe what my mouth can recite.

So I lie here, pillow damp with tears that I choke back so they won’t wake the ones I love.

My chest heaves under the weight of invisible hands. And I wonder if maybe this is what it means to carry a cross — not just in daylight obedience, but in these fragile hours when hope feels like a thread fraying in my grip.

Still… His promises do not bow to my feelings.

They stand immutable — ancient stones that weather every storm.

So I whisper them into the cavern of my chest, over and over, until my quaking soul remembers how to be still.

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)

Even when I lack understanding.

Even when my heart feels hollow.

Even when my hands are empty.

“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” (Hebrews 13:5)

Not when I’m drowning in sorrow,

Not when my faith is more question than conviction, Not when I feel utterly alone in a crowd of blessings.

“No good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.” (Psalm 84:11)

Even if His definition of “good” slices against my expectations.

So I will keep speaking truth to this trembling frame of dust.

I will declare what my heart can’t yet feel, until feeling follows faith.

I will preach to my own midnight that joy comes in the morning, even if I wake with tearstains still on my face.

And maybe that’s what trust really is —

Not the absence of grief, or silence of questions,

But the stubborn, defiant choosing to believe that He is good.

Still.

Even here.

So I tuck these promises in my heart like smoldering coals,

And I wait for them to catch fire,

To warm the coldest corners of me

Until I can rise again —

Loved, held, and shepherded by a God who is never far, Even when my eyes are too swollen from tears to see.💙