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Nobody prepares you for the sheer silence after you’ve screamed until your throat is raw. You’re told from the time you’re small that if you pray hard enough, if you have enough faith, if you stay good, the floor won't drop out from under you. And then it does. The door stays shut. The diagnosis doesn't change. The person still leaves. The grave still gets dug. And you’re just left sitting on the cold floor of a quiet room, staring at the ceiling, feeling this heavy, suffocating rage. The worst part isn't even the anger. It’s the isolation that comes with it. Because the moment you admit you're furious with God, the people around you get uncomfortable. They try to patch you up. They drop cheap phrases like "He works in mysterious ways" or "He won't give you more than you can handle" as if a neat little cliché can stitch up a heart that's been torn completely open. They’re so afraid of the dark that they try to force the lights on before you're even ready to breathe. So you stop talking. You smile, you nod, and you carry this toxic secret or toxic positivey around: that you feel completely betrayed. ’m not writing this to tell you it’s all going to make sense tomorrow. I’m not going to give you three steps to get over it or tell you that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes things just break. Sometimes life is just brutal, unfair, and utterly exhausting, and you are allowed to sit in the ashes and just be furious about it. Job didn't have a neat resolution while his life was burning down around him. He just sat in the dirt, scraping his skin, cursing the fact that he was ever born. He didn't want a sermon. He just wanted to hurt.
If you’re sitting in that pitch-black space right now where you don't even know how to pray because every word feels like ash in your mouth you don't have to fix it today. You don't have to apologize for how deeply it hurts, and you don't have to pretend you're strong.
I’m not asking for your answers or your silver linings. But if you’re in the dark right now too... you don't have to sit in it entirely alone.
Reach out .
No explanations needed.
Just let it exist.
Let me sit with you
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I’ve noticed something lately in a lot of conversations about faith.
People are asking:
“Am I Christian?”
“Am I just spiritual?”
“Do I have to go to church?”
“How am I supposed to pray?”
“How do I know if God is actually hearing me?”
“What does having a relationship with Jesus even look like?”
“Am I coming to God the right way?”
And underneath a lot of those questions, I think there is an even deeper one:
“Do I belong with God if I don’t have all of this figured out yet?”
I think sometimes we make coming to God much more complicated than Jesus did.
You do not have to clean yourself up first.
You do not have to know the Bible from Genesis to Revelation.
You do not have to know the right Christian vocabulary.
You do not have to pray beautifully.
You do not have to pretend that you are certain when you are confused.
You do not have to hide your anger, grief, doubt, questions, or disappointment from God.
Come honestly.
If all you can pray is, “God, I don’t even know if I know You, but I want to,” then start there.
If all you can say is, “Jesus, I’m confused. Help me understand,” start there.
A relationship with Christ is not a performance where you earn points for sounding spiritual enough.
It is a relationship.
And relationships grow through time, truth, trust, communication, listening, correction, love, and sometimes even wrestling.
That doesn’t mean truth does not matter. It absolutely does.
Following Jesus is more than simply calling ourselves “spiritual.” Jesus calls us to know Him, trust Him, repent, learn His teachings, obey Him, love God, love people, and allow Him to transform the way we live.
But transformation is a journey.
You don’t wait until you are healthy before going to the doctor, and you don’t have to wait until your life is perfectly together before going to Christ.
And Christianity itself is not supposed to be merely a label we attach to ourselves.
You can wear the label “Christian” and never truly seek Christ.
You can also be someone standing outside the church doors, unsure of what you believe, while sincerely whispering, “God, please show me who You are.”
God is not intimidated by sincere questions.
Read the Scriptures.
Talk to Him honestly.
Learn who Jesus actually is—not only who people on social media say He iis
Search Him.
Learn His Character.
And when you fail, don’t make failure your hiding place.
Come back.
Again and again.
Because maybe the question isn’t:
“Do I fit perfectly into Christianity yet?”
Maybe the better question is:
“Am I willing to know Christ, follow where He leads, and allow Him to change me?”
Faith isn’t having every answer before you begin.
Sometimes faith begins with one very simple prayer:
“God, here I am. Teach me who You are.” 🤍
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Parenthood and family do not look the same for everyone.
You may be a mother or father by birth, adoption, fostering, remarriage, or guardianship. You may be a single parent, stepparent, grandparent raising grandchildren, a relative who stepped into the role of a parent, or someone helping raise and love a child who did not come into your life in the way you originally imagined.
You may have just welcomed a baby and be wondering why you don’t feel like yourself anymore.
You may love your child deeply and still feel exhausted, anxious, overwhelmed, angry, disconnected, frightened, numb, or confused by emotions you cannot explain.
You may be experiencing postpartum depression, anxiety, or another postpartum struggle while wondering, Why am I feeling this way when I should be happy?
Or maybe there is no baby in your arms because you experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, pregnancy loss, or the loss of a child you had already begun loving, praying for, dreaming about, and imagining a future with.
Whatever brought you here, please hear this:
God is not afraid of the place you are in.
You do not have to make your grief prettier before bringing it to Him.
You do not have to understand your emotions before God can understand you.
You do not have to pretend to be strong when your heart is exhausted.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
To the mother struggling after childbirth: loving your baby and struggling emotionally can exist at the same time. Your struggle does not erase your love.
To the mother grieving a pregnancy or child: your grief matters. The child you loved mattered. The hopes, prayers, names, plans, and dreams you carried mattered.
To the single parent carrying responsibilities without a partner beside you: God sees the nights nobody else sees. He sees every time you keep going while exhausted. Strength does not mean you were designed to carry everything alone.
To the fathers and husbands watching someone they love struggle: you may not know how to fix what is happening—and sometimes you cannot. But you can listen. You can stay. You can pray. You can help carry the practical burdens. You can encourage her to seek help without making her feel ashamed.
And fathers grieve too.
A father who loses a child may be grieving while simultaneously feeling responsible for holding everyone else together. Your pain is not less important because you are the father.
To the stepmothers and stepfathers: loving a child you did not give birth to does not make your love insignificant. Blended families can carry their own joys, wounds, adjustments, fears, and complicated emotions. God sees the work you are doing to build something loving where different lives have been joined together.
To the adoptive and foster parents: your journey into parenthood may include waiting, uncertainty, attachment struggles, difficult histories, enormous love, and emotions other people may never fully understand.
To the grandparents and relatives raising children: perhaps you never expected to become a parent again—or to become one in this way. God sees the sacrifice behind what you are carrying.
To the parent whose relationship ended.
To the parent sharing custody.
To the parent raising a child while grieving their spouse.
To the parent who feels alone even while surrounded by people.
To the family navigating infertility.
To the person who wanted desperately to become a parent but experienced loss along the way.
To the family whose story looks nothing like the story they originally imagined.
There is room for your story here.
“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” — Galatians 6:2
Sometimes faith looks like worship.
Sometimes faith looks like prayer.
Sometimes faith looks like crying before God and admitting, “I don’t understand.”
Sometimes it looks like bringing dinner to an exhausted parent.
Sometimes it looks like holding a grieving father while he finally allows himself to cry.
Sometimes it looks like taking the baby for an hour so a mother can sleep.
Sometimes it looks like saying, “I need help.”
And asking for help is not a failure of faith.
God can work through prayer, Scripture, the church, family, friendship, counseling, doctors, support groups, and people willing to show up and carry one another.
That is what Christian community should look like.
Not perfect people pretending everything is okay.
People carrying one another toward Christ.
So if you are a mother, father, stepparent, grandparent, adoptive parent, foster parent, guardian, single parent, grieving parent, or someone who has stepped into the sacred responsibility of loving and raising a child—you have a place in this conversation.
And if you have walked through postpartum struggles, miscarriage, pregnancy or child loss, or a season of parenthood that nearly broke you, share your story if you feel comfortable.
Your testimony may become someone else’s reminder:
“I am not the only one.”
You are seen.
Your grief is seen.
Your exhaustion is seen.
Your love is seen.
Your family is seen.
And whatever your family looks like or whatever road brought you here, God has not lost sight of you. ❤️🙏
You are Seen 🌷🌹🌺🌸🪻🌻🌼
