There are moments in life when your heart doesn’t just ache — it shatters. It’s as if your chest becomes a room filled with broken glass, just waiting for one more shard to slice through muscle. And suddenly, everything is on the floor — sharp, painful, raw. You want to pick up the pieces, but every attempt cuts deeper. You try with trembling hands, tear-filled eyes, clenched teeth — but every effort only leaves more wounds. And yet, something in you still wants to fix it.
Maybe healing doesn’t begin by gathering what’s shattered, but by finding the courage to leave it where it fell. Maybe this is the one thing you cannot control. In a perfect world, you could walk into healing easily — light, unburdened, free of the ache. But we don’t live in that perfect world.
Reality asks us to face the pain — to feel it fully — because pain ignored doesn’t disappear. It lingers in how we love, how we speak, how we exist. It changes our posture in the world.
But maybe healing isn’t about walking away untouched. Maybe it’s walking forward with scars — proof that you loved, that you tried, that something in you still believes in tomorrow — even when the you right now doesn’t. And in a world where you don’t know what to do with the pain — we have God.
This is the moment you lay it at His feet — the moment you whisper the hardest prayer:
“God, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t bear this pain.”
In this moment, the pain feels like it’s tearing you apart. You’re questioning everything. You’re exhausted — prayed out, cried out. And that’s okay. Feel it. Let it out. Talk to God — He sees you, He hears you.
One day at a time, the edges soften. The sharpness dulls and suddenly it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. The pain is no longer consuming you; it’s just a part of your story. And one day, you find yourself standing in the same room where your heart broke, realizing it’s not filled with shards, but light slipping through the wounds. You feel lighter.
That’s grace — quiet, patient, redemptive grace. The kind that doesn’t erase the heartbreak but becomes a whisper of hope — that maybe, just maybe, you are going to be okay. You are not alone. You are loved, cared for, and you are sacred. Let Him lead you out:
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. Even when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever and ever.”
It’s okay to utter these words with barely any faith, because the little yearning you have — God sees it. He honors it. And He’s always loving you, even when you can barely feel the embrace.
He’s whispering, “I’m here. I’ve always been here, and I will always be here.” And maybe that’s what healing truly is — learning to rest in His presence, even when your heart still trembles.
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