You said you’re with us, but I feel without

You said You’re Emmanuel—God with us.

But what do I do with the ache when “with” feels like a lie my heart can’t swallow?

When the world keeps turning,

but mine has stopped…and I’m standing still in the ruins of what used to be.

I didn’t feel You there when they died.

I didn’t feel You when betrayal pierced my ribs like a blade I never saw coming.

I didn’t feel You when I fell apart,

when I screamed into the hollow of my pillow,

and begged for You to make the pain make sense.

You said You were with me,

but all I could feel was without.

Without the laughter.

Without the warmth.

Without the one who knew my voice.

Without the comfort I thought You promised.

And I know I’m not supposed to say it out loud,

but I miss You.

I miss You in the middle of my belief.

I ache for You while I still believe in You.

I call Your name while wondering if You’ll ever whisper mine again.

Some nights I kneel in the dark and whisper,

“Where are You?”

And somehow,

the silence feels sacred.

Because even though I can’t feel You,

something deep inside me still knows You. My feelings don’t reign, they don’t speak truth.

Knows You’re here, hidden in the ache,

buried in the grief, woven through the weeping.

Maybe with us doesn’t always mean without pain.

Maybe it means within pain.

Maybe it’s You, holding what I cannot,

breathing when I can’t catch my breath,

weeping when my tears run dry.

Maybe the with-ness of God isn’t loud or obvious—maybe it’s quiet enough to sit beside the shattered without trying to fix what can’t be fixed.

So tonight, I’ll sit in the quiet and let the ache be an altar.

I’ll let my tears be worship,

and my trembling faith be enough.

Because even when I can’t trace You,

I’ll still choose to trust You.

Even when “with” feels like “without,”

I’ll whisper it again:

You are Emmanuel.

God.

Still with us.

Even here.

Even now.

Even in the dark.