Your wound is not the final word

I heard every word you didn’t say.

I felt every tear you didn’t have the strength to cry. I have sat in the silent spaces between your prayers, where your faith trembled and your hope fell limp, and I did not turn away.

You think I left you—

but I never moved.

Even when the pain came,

even when the shadows swallowed the light you knew, I was there in the dark with you.

Not watching from afar—

weeping with you, holding you,

bleeding with you.

I did not stop this,

and I know you do not understand.

But I did not stop being good.

Your mind cannot see it yet,

but your spirit will one day testify—

this wound will not have the final word.

What you lost will not end in loss.

Every thread of pain is being rewoven

into something that will breathe life again.

I am not the author of cruelty.

I am the One who steps into the fire with you

and walks you out without the smell of smoke on your clothes. I am the One who stands between you and the weight that should have crushed you. I am the One who refuses to let the grave keep what belongs to Me.

You feel abandoned—

but you are held.

You feel forsaken—

but I have carved your name into My hands.

I will not drop you. I will not lose you.

You will see goodness again—

and it will not be a diluted, half-hearted goodness, but the kind that roars through the valley and silences the lie that I was ever absent.

I know you don’t know how to trust Me right now.

That’s okay—

Just stay with Me.

Even here.

Even in the ruin.

Because resurrection never comes to those who run from the tomb.

And when I raise this—

when I raise you—

you will not only see My plan,

you will love Me for it.