You’re still good

Ecclesiastes 3:11

“He hath made every thing beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.”

Lord —there’s a lot of things in this life I didn’t choose. Not this timeline, this twisted path, these scars that still ache.

Not this fragile body that wakes already exhausted, this mind that studies joy as though it’s a language I was never taught.

And yet here I am.

Still inhaling Your borrowed air.

Still aching in places even I can’t name.

Still Yours.

And I know — somehow deeper than my wounds — that You are still good.

But God, I’m bleeding questions that won’t clot.

They spill from me like confessions.

Why didn’t You stop it?

Why does healing feel like humiliation?

Why do I flinch when someone softly says, “God’s timing is perfect”?

It’s easier to say I trust You than to stand here naked of every defense and truly mean it.

But I do trust You.

I just can’t pretend anymore.

So this is my altar —

these jagged pieces of me I want to hurl into the sea. The scraps I’m ashamed of, afraid for You to see, though You’ve already searched me and called me Yours.

Here they are.

If this is the life I did not choose, then oh God —

teach me to hold it without despising it.

To cradle it tenderly, though it trembles in my grasp. Redeem it, I beg You.

Even if it never resembles what I once prayed for. Even if I stutter and limp and break a thousand more times before glory.

Even if the miracle is simply enough faith to get through this one fragile day.

Use it all, Lord.

Waste nothing.

Let this life — the one I never would have written for myself —rise holy in Your nail-pierced hands.

Let my unanswered questions become a sweet savor. Let my disappointments become offerings. Let my relentless ache become a beacon to Your heart.

And when I meet You face to face,

I will see it all —the thread of gold You were weaving through every wound,

the resurrection hidden in the ruins,

the love that was never absent for a single breath.

Until then,

here I am.

Still aching.

Still asking.

Still Yours.

And still believing You will make it all — somehow —

beautiful.

Holy.

Forever redeemed.