Our Threads of Grace

We are all broken, but we're not alone.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

When You Can’t See the Next Step

“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”      — Psalm 119:105

There’re seasons in life when the road ahead disappears into the fog.

You pray for direction, but no clear answer comes. You search for signs, but the future remains hidden. The plans you once held seem to have unraveled, and every option feels uncertain. For those who are already weary, broken, or discouraged, uncertainty can feel especially heavy. We often tell ourselves that we could endure almost anything if we just knew how it was going to turn out.

But faith has always been strongest where certainty ends.

Many of us want God to hand us a map when He often gives us only enough light for the next step. We want the entire journey explained before we move forward. We want guarantees that our efforts won’t fail, that our hearts won’t be hurt again, and that the path we’re taking will lead somewhere good. Yet God’s way has rarely been to reveal the whole picture at once.

The psalmist wrote, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path” (Psalm 119:105, KJV). Notice that Scripture describes a lamp, not a floodlight. A lamp illuminates what is immediately in front of us. It provides enough light for the next step, not necessarily the next hundred.

That can be frustrating when you’re standing at a crossroads in life. Perhaps you’re struggling financially and don’t know how the bills will be paid next month. Maybe you’re facing a difficult diagnosis, grieving a loss, waiting for a job opportunity, or trying to rebuild after a devastating disappointment. You keep asking God, “What happens next?” and heaven seems quiet.

Yet God’s silence is not His absence.

Consider the story of Abraham. God called him to leave everything familiar and travel to a land that would be shown to him later. Scripture says, “By faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, obeyed; and he went out, not knowing whither he went” (Hebrews 11:8, KJV). Imagine that. Abraham obeyed before he understood. He trusted before he saw. He walked before he knew where the road would lead.

Many of us would prefer the opposite.

Sometimes we assume that if we cannot see God’s plan, then perhaps He doesn’t have one. But hiddenness is not the same as abandonment. A child walking through a dark room may not understand where they’re going, but if a loving parent is holding their hand, they’re not truly lost.

The prophet Isaiah recorded God’s words: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD” (Isaiah 55:8, KJV). God’s perspective stretches across eternity while ours is limited to the present moment. What appears to us as delay may actually be preparation. What feels like a closed door may be protection. What seems like a detour may become the very path that leads us to God’s best purposes.

Corrie ten Boom, who endured the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp and later shared her testimony of faith around the world, once wrote, “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.” Having suffered deeply herself, she understood that trust is often forged not in comfort but in uncertainty.

Perhaps today you find yourself standing in a place where you can’t see the next step. Maybe your prayers feel unanswered. Maybe your heart is tired from waiting. Maybe you’re afraid of making the wrong decision or facing another disappointment. If so, remember this: God has never required His children to see the entire staircase before taking the first step. He simply asks us to trust Him enough to keep walking.

The same God who guided Abraham through unknown lands, sustained Joseph through years of waiting, and carried David through seasons of fear is still faithful today. His faithfulness does not depend on your ability to understand what He’s doing. One day, many of the questions that trouble us now may finally make sense. Until then, faith often looks like taking today’s step and leaving tomorrow in God’s hands.

So if you can’t see the next step, don’t despair. The Shepherd knows the path even when the sheep cannot. The Author knows the story even when the characters do not. The Father sees what His children cannot yet see. And that is enough. “Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5-6, KJV).

Today, you may not have all the answers. You may not know what comes next.

But you know the One who does.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

The Fear That You’ll Never Feel Whole Again

There’re wounds that don’t bleed where people can see them. They settle deep inside the soul, hidden beneath smiles, church clothes, work schedules, and ordinary conversations. Betrayal does this. Divorce does this. Addiction, grief, and most certainly trauma does this. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t simply surviving what happened to you. The hardest part, for many, is the fear that afterward, you’ll never feel whole again. That life will never be the same.

Many hurting Christians quietly carry this fear. They still believe in God, at least in some trembling way, but they no longer recognize themselves. The person they used to be feels distant now. Joy feels foreign. Trust feels dangerous. Peace feels temporary. Even worship can feel heavy when your heart is carrying shattered threads you don’t know how to put back together.

There’re moments after deep pain where healing seems impossible because the damage feels permanent. A woman betrayed by someone she trusted may wonder if she’ll ever feel that safe again. A man recovering from addiction may wonder if he’ll always carry shame like chains around his neck. Someone grieving a spouse or child may wake up every morning with the same crushing realization that life will never look the same again. Trauma has a way of convincing us that brokenness is now our permanent identity. Fooling us into believing that our pain is part of who we are now.

The Bible never pretends human pain is small. Scripture is honest about sorrow. One of the clearest examples is Naomi in the book of Ruth. Naomi didn’t experience a temporary inconvenience. She lost her husband. She lost her sons. She lost the future she had imagined. When she returned home, she told the people around her, “Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me” (Ruth 1:20 KJV). The name “Mara” means bitter. That’s not the language of someone who feels spiritually victorious. That’s the cry of a wounded woman who no longer felt whole.

Naomi’s grief changed how she saw herself. Pain often does that to us. We stop seeing ourselves as beloved children of God and begin seeing ourselves only through the lens of what happened to us. Divorced, addicted, betrayed, abandoned, damaged and traumatized. Even bitter. We begin to believe the wound has become our name. It becomes our identity. Who we are.

But what’s remarkable about Naomi’s story is that God did not abandon her in her bitterness. The Lord continued weaving grace into her life even while she was still grieving. Ruth stayed beside her. Provision slowly appeared. Hope returned in quiet pieces rather than dramatic miracles. Naomi’s healing was not instant. It unfolded slowly, painfully, and imperfectly. Often, that’s how healing works.

Many Christians secretly think healing should happen quickly if their faith is strong enough. But emotional wounds rarely heal overnight. A broken bone needs time to mend correctly, and so does a broken heart. There are some hurts that heal so gradually you almost can’t see the progress until you look back months or even years later and realize you survived days you once thought would destroy you.

A friend of mine once shared the story of his recovery, after alcoholism destroyed his marriage and relationships with his children. After getting sober, he expected immediate peace because he had finally turned back to God. Instead, he found himself overwhelmed with regret. Every apology reminded him of the years he couldn’t get back. Some days he sat in his car after church because he couldn’t stop crying before driving home. He said the hardest part was believing that God could forgive him, while he still struggled to forgive himself. That kind of pain is more common than many people realize.

Sometimes healing begins, not when the pain disappears, but when you stop hiding your wounds from God. David wrote in Psalm 34:18, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit” (KJV). Notice that the verse does not say God moves close to the people who have already healed themselves. He draws near to the brokenhearted.

Nearness is important because suffering often creates loneliness. Hurt people frequently feel isolated even in crowded rooms. Trauma can make it difficult to trust others. Betrayal can make kindness feel suspicious. Loss can make the world feel strangely distant. But the presence of God is not dependent upon your emotional strength. Some days faith may look less like confidence and more like simply whispering, “Lord, please do not leave me like this.” And even that trembling prayer matters.

One of the cruelest lies pain tells us is that because we still hurt, we must be failing spiritually. But scars are not proof that God abandoned you. Sometimes scars are evidence that you survived.

Jesus Himself still carried scars after his resurrection.

Wholeness, in this life, may not mean becoming the exact person you were before the wound. Some experiences change us forever. But God has always specialized in bringing life out of ruined things. He restores in ways that are often quieter and slower than we expect. Sometimes He does it through counseling. Sometimes through honest friendships. Sometimes through time. Sometimes through small moments of mercy that slowly begin stitching the torn pieces together.

That is the quiet beauty of grace. Thread by thread, God continues working even when your heart feels frayed beyond repair.

For the readers of Our Threads of Grace, maybe that’s what you need to remember today: you don’t have to force yourself to feel whole overnight. Healing is not a race, and your brokenness does not make you less loved by God. The Lord who stayed with Naomi in her bitterness, who stayed with David in his grief, and who stays with wounded believers now, is still patient with hurting hearts.

You may not feel whole today. Perhaps you won’t tomorrow either. But the slow work of healing does not mean God has forgotten you.

Sometimes grace is found not in suddenly becoming whole again, but in discovering that even your tattered threads are still being held in the hands of God.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

Hi! Just want to say thank you for writing Some Days, Survival Is Faith—I'm deeply comforted by it. I thank God that He reached me through it <3

I thank God that he reached you through it as well.

And I thank you for letting me know. I seriously appreciate it.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

Some Days, Survival Is Faith

There are seasons of life where faith does not look victorious. It doesn’t look like bold prayers, overflowing joy, or unwavering confidence. It does not sound like powerful testimonies or triumphant worship songs. Sometimes faith looks far less impressive than we imagined it would. Sometimes faith is simply surviving.

Sometimes it’s dragging yourself out of bed when grief has hollowed you out from the inside. Sometimes it’s whispering a two-sentence prayer because you no longer have the strength for anything more. Sometimes it’s continuing through another difficult day when your heart is exhausted and your mind is heavy. And in those moments, many discouraged Christians quietly wonder if they are failing God.

There is often an unspoken pressure in Christian culture to appear spiritually strong at all times. We compare ourselves to believers who seem constantly joyful, confident, and victorious, while we ourselves feel barely able to hold together. We think faith should always feel powerful. But Scripture paints a far more compassionate picture of weary believers.

The Bible is filled with exhausted people. Elijah, after witnessing one of the greatest miracles in Scripture, collapsed under the weight of fear and despair and prayed that he might die. David wrote psalms soaked in grief, confusion, and loneliness. Jeremiah became known as the weeping prophet. These were not faithless people. They were hurting people. Yet God remained near to them in their weakness.

Sometimes we forget that surviving a painful season while still refusing to let go of God is a profound kind of faithfulness. The world often defines strength as conquering, overcoming, and succeeding. But sometimes God defines strength as simply remaining. Remaining when prayers seem unanswered. Remaining when loneliness stretches on. Remaining when illness persists. Remaining when life becomes nothing like what you hoped for. There are days when your greatest act of worship may simply be not giving up.

Isaiah 42:3 says of the Lord, “A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench” (KJV). What a tender image that is. A bruised reed is already damaged and fragile. A smoking flax is barely burning anymore, almost extinguished. Yet Scripture says the Lord does not crush the weak or snuff out those whose flame has nearly gone out. Some Christians live as though God is impatient with weakness, but Jesus consistently moved gently toward broken people. He was compassionate toward the weary.

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28 KJV). Notice who He invites: the burdened, the exhausted, the overwhelmed. Not the people who have everything together.

There is a kind of spiritual exhaustion that words struggle to explain. It comes after repeated disappointments. After prolonged illness. After financial hardship. After loss upon loss upon loss. You still believe in God, but your soul feels tired in ways sleep cannot fix. During those seasons, even small acts can become sacred. Opening your Bible for five minutes when your thoughts are anxious. Whispering, “Lord, help me,” before falling asleep. Getting dressed when depression tells you not to bother. Continuing to trust God while carrying questions you cannot answer. These things may seem small to others, but Heaven sees them differently.

Sometimes survival itself is faith.

The poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once wrote, “Into each life some rain must fall.” But for some people, the storm feels endless. And when suffering stretches over months or years, Christians can begin feeling ashamed that they are not handling it “better.” Yet nowhere in Scripture does God require His children to pretend they are unhurt.

Psalm 62:8 says, “Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us” (KJV). God does not ask you to sanitize your pain before bringing it to Him. He invites honesty. He welcomes weary prayers. Even tearful silence is understood by Him.

There are moments when faith is not a roaring fire. It is a tiny flicker protected by trembling hands. And maybe that is where Our Threads of Grace becomes deeply meaningful. Grace is often found in the thin threads we almost overlook — a quiet prayer, a kind word from a friend, the strength to endure one more day, the courage to keep believing while your heart aches. Thread by thread, grace holds together people who feel like they are unraveling.

You may feel spiritually weak because you are struggling just to keep going. But perhaps the very fact that you are still reaching for God in your pain is evidence of faith still alive within you. The enemy wants weary Christians to believe they are failures because they are tired. But exhaustion is not failure. Sometimes the holiest thing a person can do is continue walking with God while limping.

Galatians 6:9 says, “And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not” (KJV). Notice that Scripture acknowledges weariness. God knows His people grow tired. He knows life in a broken world can drain even faithful hearts. Yet He lovingly urges us not to faint — not because we are strong on our own, but because His grace continues carrying us even when we feel weak.

Maybe today you are not thriving. Maybe you are barely making it through. Maybe your prayers feel small and your faith feels fragile. But if you are still holding onto God, even weakly, then take heart: you are not failing Him.

Some days, survival is faith. And God sees every quiet act of endurance.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

“Jesus Was Gentle with Broken People”

There are many hurting Christians quietly carrying a fear they rarely say out loud. It’s the fear that perhaps they have disappointed God too deeply, failed too greatly, or wandered too far to still be met with tenderness. They sit in church carrying invisible wounds. They whisper prayers through tears they hope no one notices. They smile when asked how they’re doing, even though inside they feel exhausted, ashamed, anxious, lonely, or spiritually numb. Some are grieving failures they cannot undo. Others are trying to survive heartbreak, disappointment, betrayal, or seasons of deep discouragement. And somewhere underneath all the hurt is a painful question: How does Jesus really feel about someone as broken as me?

For many people, especially those raised around harsh religion or painful church experiences, it can become easy to imagine Jesus as perpetually disappointed—arms crossed, frustrated, waiting for us to finally stop struggling. But when we look honestly at the life of Christ through Scripture, something profoundly beautiful begins to emerge. Jesus was remarkably gentle with broken people.

He was not careless about sin. He never ignored truth or pretended wrongdoing didn’t matter. Yet there’s something deeply comforting in the way Jesus interacted with wounded, ashamed, grieving, and discouraged people. The harshest words of Christ were often directed toward the proud, self-righteous, and hypocritical. But toward the broken, Jesus displayed extraordinary compassion.

Scripture gives us one of the most tender descriptions of Christ’s heart in the book of Matthew:

“A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench…” — Matthew 12:20 (KJV)

The imagery here feels deeply personal for weary souls. A bruised reed is already bent and fragile. A smoking flax is a wick barely holding onto life, no longer burning brightly but only faintly flickering with smoke. Jesus did not say He would crush bruised things. He said He would not break them. He did not say He would extinguish struggling faith. He said He would not quench it.

Some Christians feel exactly like that smoking flax. Their faith still exists, but only barely. They still believe, but exhaustion has dimmed the flame. They pray, though the words feel weak. They try to trust God while carrying pain they can scarcely explain. Some are grieving relationships that ended. Some are carrying guilt from sins they deeply regret. Some are trying to keep believing after disappointments they never expected life to hand them.

The beautiful truth of Scripture is this: Jesus does not despise fragile faith. Consider the woman caught in adultery in John chapter 8. Dragged publicly before religious leaders, surrounded by condemnation, humiliated and exposed, she stood in front of a crowd ready to destroy her. Her sin was real. Her shame was heavy. But Jesus did not humiliate her further. Instead, He confronted the hypocrisy surrounding her. And when her accusers disappeared, Jesus spoke words that still carry extraordinary tenderness:

“Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.” — John 8:11 (KJV)

Notice the balance in Christ. He did not excuse sin. He did not pretend wrongdoing was acceptable. But neither did He crush someone already crushed by shame. Jesus corrected her without destroying her.

Many hurting believers desperately need to understand that distinction. Conviction and condemnation are not the same thing. Conviction gently draws us back to God, saying, Come home. Let Me heal what is broken. Condemnation whispers hopelessness, insisting, You are ruined now. God is finished with you. But Romans reminds believers:

“There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus…” — Romans 8:1 (KJV)

Perhaps nowhere is the gentleness of Jesus toward failure more moving than in the story of Peter. Peter loved Jesus deeply, yet fear overtook him. The disciple who boldly promised loyalty ended up denying Christ three times. Imagine the crushing grief Peter carried after hearing the rooster crow and realizing what he had done. Scripture tells us:

“And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter.” — Luke 22:61 (KJV)

Peter went out and “wept bitterly.” These were not shallow tears. This was heartbreak. Shame. Regret. The kind of grief many Christians understand all too well. Yet failure was not Peter’s ending. After the resurrection, Jesus met Peter again, not to humiliate him, but to restore him. In John chapter 21, Jesus gently asked Peter three times: “Lovest thou me?” Three denials met by three opportunities for restoration. Jesus didn’t ignore Peter’s failure, but He also refused to let failure become Peter’s identity. And maybe someone reading this needs to hear that truth deeply today. Your breaking point did not surprise Jesus. Your struggle did not catch Him off guard. The addiction relapse, the painful divorce, the anxiety, the doubts, the secret grief, the shame-filled moments you wish you could erase—none of them shocked the Savior.

Jesus knew broken people would exist in a broken world. That is precisely why His invitation feels so full of mercy:

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28 (KJV)

Notice who Jesus invites. Not the polished. Not the people who have it all together. Not the spiritually impressive. He calls the weary, the burdened, the overwhelmed, the ones carrying pain too heavy for their own strength. Charles Spurgeon once said: “There is more mercy in Christ than sin in us.” What a comfort for discouraged Christians. Because many believers secretly live as though God’s patience hangs by a thread, terrified that one more struggle or one more failure might finally exhaust His mercy. Yet over and over, Scripture reveals a Savior who moved toward broken people rather than away from them. He touched lepers no one else wanted near. He sat with outcasts. He forgave sinners. He wept beside grieving people. He restored failures and strengthened doubters.

Jesus changes us, yes. He calls us toward holiness, yes. But He does not despise wounded people who are trying to crawl toward Him through tears and weakness. If your soul feels fragile today, if discouragement has settled deeply into your heart, or if shame has convinced you that God must surely be disappointed in you, remember this truth: the hands of Jesus were never harsh toward those who came to Him broken.

He was gentle with broken people then.

And He is gentle still.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

Grieving the Life You Thought You’d Have

There is a particular kind of grief that rarely gets spoken about in church pews or prayer circles. It is not always the grief of losing a person. Sometimes it is the grief of losing the life you thought you would live.

It’s mourning the marriage you prayed would heal, but didn’t. The child you hoped to hold. The ministry you believed God called you to. The career that collapsed. The friendships that slowly disappeared. The healthy body you once took for granted. The financial stability you worked tirelessly to build. The future you pictured in your mind so many nights before falling asleep.

Sometimes the deepest heartbreak comes from watching your life become unrecognizable from the one you once imagined. And that grief is real. Many hurting Christians silently carry shame over this kind of sorrow. They think they should simply “have more faith.” They believe grieving broken dreams somehow dishonors God. But Scripture never teaches us to pretend we’re not hurting. Throughout the Bible, we see people pouring out disappointment, confusion, fear, and heartbreak before the Lord.

David cried, “Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me?” (Psalm 42:5 KJV). Job mourned the destruction of nearly every part of his life. Hannah wept bitterly over unanswered prayers. Naomi openly said, “Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me” (Ruth 1:20 KJV). God did not strike them down for their honesty. He met them in it.

There’s something uniquely painful about watching life move forward while your own heart feels stuck in the ruins of what could have been. Social media becomes a gallery of everyone else’s answered prayers while yours seem suspended in silence. You watch others celebrate engagements while your relationship ended. Others announce pregnancies while you sit with empty arms. Others buy homes while you struggle to pay bills. Others testify about miraculous healing while your body still aches every morning. And quietly, secretly, you begin grieving not only your circumstances, but the person you thought you would become by now.

C.S. Lewis once wrote, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” That’s true not only after death, but after disappointment. Because broken dreams leave us fearful too. Fearful that life will never improve. Fearful that God has forgotten us. Fearful that we somehow failed Him. But disappointment is not proof of God’s abandonment.

One of the hardest truths Christians wrestle with is that faithfulness to God does not guarantee an easy earthly story. Sometimes the Lord leads His children through wilderness seasons they never would have chosen. Proverbs does say, “Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5 KJV), but trusting Him often hurts because we do not understand.

We wanted clarity. God gave silence. We wanted healing. God gave endurance. We wanted rescue. God gave daily bread. We wanted the whole road map. God gave enough light for the next step.

And still, somehow, He remains good.

That can be difficult to say out loud during seasons of suffering. Some days you may not feel triumphant faith. Some days your prayers may barely rise above exhaustion. You may sit in your car fighting tears before work. You may smile in public while privately wondering why your life turned out this way. You may feel guilty because somewhere inside you still mourn the future you lost.

But grieving what you hoped for is not weakness. Even Jesus grieved. In the Garden of Gethsemane, before the cross, He said, “My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death” (Matthew 26:38 KJV). The Son of God Himself experienced crushing anguish. Christianity has never been a denial of pain. It is the promise that pain is not the end of the story.

Sometimes we imagine God weaving our lives like beautiful tapestries with bright colors and obvious patterns. But while we live here on earth, most days feel less like finished artwork and more like loose, tangled threads scattered across the floor.

And maybe that is why Our Threads of Faith matters so deeply.

Faith is often not a completed picture. It is holding onto one fragile thread at a time. One prayer. One breath. One Scripture. One more morning getting out of bed when your heart feels heavy. We may not yet see what God is weaving, but we continue placing the broken strands into His hands.

The poet Corrie ten Boom once wrote:

“My life is but a weaving Between my God and me. I cannot choose the colors, He worketh steadily.”

From underneath, the threads may look chaotic. Knotted. Unfinished. But God sees the other side of the tapestry. That does not erase grief. It does not magically remove loneliness or financial stress or chronic illness or shattered relationships. Some wounds stay tender for years. Certain prayers may never be answered the way we hoped. This side of Heaven, some stories remain unfinished.

Yet even here, God remains near to brokenhearted people.

“The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit” (Psalm 34:18 KJV).

Notice the verse does not say God only draws near to the joyful, strong, or victorious. He draws near to the brokenhearted. To those grieving the marriage that failed. The dreams that collapsed. The years they cannot get back. The body that no longer functions the same. The loneliness they cannot explain to anyone else.

He comes near to grieving people. Maybe today you’re carrying sorrow for a version of life you once believed would exist by now. Maybe you feel embarrassed by how deeply it still hurts. Maybe you keep wondering why God allowed your story to unfold this way.

You may not receive all those answers right now. But your grief is not invisible to Him. The Lord who counted David’s tears still sees yours. The Savior who wept at Lazarus’ tomb still understands sorrow. And the God who weaves beauty from ashes is still holding every broken thread of your life, even the ones you do not understand.

So if all you can do today is grieve, then grieve honestly before God.

And if all you have left is one trembling thread of faith, hold onto it.

Sometimes that single thread is enough for Him to begin weaving hope again.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

Grieving the Life You Thought Youd Have

Grieving the Life You Thought You’d Have

There is a particular kind of grief that rarely gets spoken about in church pews or prayer circles. It is not always the grief of losing a p

[ourthreadsofgrace]

The Prayer You’re Too Tired to Pray 

There’re moments in life when exhaustion settles so deeply into the soul that even prayer feels impossible. Not because we no longer believe. Not because we no longer love God. But because disappointment has drained us, grief has hollowed us out, anxiety has worn us thin, and spiritual burnout has left us sitting quietly in the dark wondering if we have anything left to say at all.

Some people know the exhaustion of unanswered prayers. Others know the ache of losing someone they loved so deeply they cannot imagine life without them. Some are carrying private battles nobody sees—crippling anxiety, depression, fear about the future, shame from past mistakes, loneliness that echoes through every room they enter. And sometimes the hardest part isn't even the pain itself, but the pressure to keep pretending we’re okay while carrying it.

There are seasons where faith doesn't feel triumphant. It feels tired. Maybe you still go to church, but your heart feels numb. Maybe you still read your Bible, but the words seem distant. Maybe you still try to pray, but all you can manage is silence… or tears… or a whisper, “Lord, help me.” And if that is where you are today, I want you to know something with all tenderness and certainty: God hears exhausted prayers too.

Romans 8:26 says, “Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.” Notice what that verse does not say. It does’nt say God only hears polished prayers. It does not say He only listens when we’re spiritually strong, emotionally composed, or full of faith-filled words. Sometimes we don't even know what to say. Sometimes all we have are groanings, tears, trembling breaths, and silence.

And still, Heaven listens.

One of the cruelest lies discouragement whispers is that struggling Christians are failing Christians. But Scripture paints a very different picture. Again and again, God drew near to weary people. Elijah, after witnessing one of the greatest miracles in Scripture, collapsed beneath a juniper tree and asked God to let him die. David wrote psalms soaked with grief, fear, and confusion. Job sat in ashes overwhelmed by suffering he could not understand. Even Jesus Himself, in the Garden of Gethsemane, prayed in agony until His sweat became “as it were great drops of blood” (Luke 22:44).

The Bible is not a story about unbreakable people. It is a story about a faithful God carrying broken people. Sometimes we imagine prayer must sound beautiful to matter. But some of the most powerful prayers in Scripture were painfully short. “Lord, save me.” — Matthew 14:30. “God be merciful to me a sinner.” — Luke 18:13. “Lord, help me.” — Matthew 15:25.

That last one may be one of the most honest prayers a person can pray. “Lord, help me”.

Help me get through this grief. Help me quiet this fear. Help me survive this loneliness. Help me trust You again. Help me when I cannot feel You. Help me when I am too tired to keep pretending.

And God does not despise those prayers. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” Not distant from the brokenhearted, near to them.

There’s something deeply comforting about knowing God does not demand strength from exhausted souls before He offers compassion. Jesus said in Matthew 11:28, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” He did not say, “Come unto me when you have everything together, “Come back when your faith is stronger,” and not “Fix yourself first.” He simply said, “Come.” Even weary, even doubting, even barely holding on.

The Scottish preacher Robert Murray M’Cheyne once wrote, “For every look at yourself, take ten looks at Christ.” That matters deeply when discouragement turns our eyes inward and convinces us our weakness disqualifies us from God’s love. The Gospel reminds us that our hope was never rooted in our strength to begin with. It rests in His mercy. His mercy does not run out when we’re exhausted.

Sometimes spiritual burnout comes quietly. Not through rebellion, but through prolonged pain. You keep enduring heartbreak after heartbreak until your soul simply becomes tired. Tired of trying. Tired of hoping. Tired of hurting. Tired of waiting for answers that never seem to come. But exhaustion is not abandonment. Feelings can be powerful, but they are not always truthful. There will be days where God feels silent, distant, or absent. Yet Scripture says in Hebrews 13:5, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”

Never.

Not when anxiety keeps you awake at night. Not when grief steals your appetite. Not when depression numbs your heart. Not when disappointment makes prayer feel empty. Not even when your faith feels fragile.

The beautiful thing about God’s love is that it’s not sustained by our emotional energy. If it were, many of us would’ve lost it long ago. His faithfulness rests in His character, not our stamina. Sometimes surviving the day while whispering, “Lord, help me,” is an act of faith greater than we realize. And maybe that’s where you are today. Maybe you don’t have any eloquent prayers left. Maybe all you have is a tired heart and a few trembling words.

That is enough. Because the God who heard Peter sinking in the water still hears desperate cries. The God who stayed with David in caves still stays with weary hearts. The God who collected Israel’s tears in the wilderness still sees yours too. Psalm 56:8 says, “Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?”

Not one tear unnoticed. Not one exhausted prayer ignored. Not one weary soul forgotten.

So if all you can pray tonight is, “Lord, help me,” then pray exactly that. And rest in this truth:

He hears you.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

“The Loneliness of Being the One Who Stayed”

There’s a kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being abandoned by God, but from remaining faithful while others quietly drift away from Him. It’s not always dramatic. It does not arrive with explosions or headlines. Sometimes it settles into the soul slowly, like a cold rain that lingers for days. It’s the ache of being the one who still prays while others stopped believing. The one who still opens the Bible while friends now mock the faith they once confessed beside you. The one who still fights to honor God in a marriage that feels spiritually uneven. The one who still clings to conviction in a world that treats conviction like foolishness.

Some Christians know this loneliness intimately. They remember conversations that once centered around God, prayer, ministry, and hope. But now those same voices are cynical, bitter, indifferent. Some walked away from church after disappointment. Some traded faith for comfort. Some slowly compromised until the things of God became distant memories. And the believer who stayed behind is often left carrying grief that is difficult to explain.

There’s something painful about watching people you love abandon what once seemed precious to them. It can make you feel isolated in your own home, isolated in your friendships, even isolated sitting in a crowded church sanctuary. You begin to wonder if perhaps you’re foolish for still believing so deeply. You wonder why obedience feels so lonely while compromise seems celebrated and easy.

Genesis paints a picture of a world much like ours. Violence filled the earth. Wickedness spread everywhere. Humanity mocked righteousness and lived only for itself. And in the middle of that darkness stood Noah. One man constructing an ark while surrounded by unbelief.

It’s difficult to imagine the emotional weight Noah must’ve carried. Day after day he obeyed God while the world around him likely laughed at him. Every hammer strike was an act of faith in the middle of mockery. Every board placed on that ark was evidence that he believed God even when nobody else did.

The Bible says:

“But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord.” — Genesis 6:8 (KJV)

Sometimes grace does not cause you to fit into the world around you. Sometimes grace causes you to stand apart from it.

Noah’s obedience probably looked absurd to everyone watching him. Yet faithfulness often appears foolish before God reveals why it mattered. There are believers today who feel like Noah. Quietly continuing in prayer while family members roll their eyes. Quietly holding onto biblical convictions while culture mocks them for it. Quietly trying to raise children to love Christ while society pulls them in the opposite direction.

And then there is Lot. Scripture describes him as being deeply troubled by the wickedness surrounding him in Sodom. His righteous soul was “vexed” daily by what he saw and heard. Lot understood the exhausting grief of living among people who no longer cared about holiness. Many Christians know that feeling today. Not from a place of pride or self-righteousness, but from heartbreak. It’s wearying to watch darkness celebrated and truth despised. It’s exhausting to constantly feel spiritually outnumbered.

But perhaps the hardest battle for the faithful believer is not simply loneliness. It’s the temptation to become bitter because of it. When people mock your faith long enough, bitterness begins whispering at the door. When prayers for loved ones seem unanswered year after year, discouragement settles heavily on the heart. When you keep trying to walk with God while others drift further away, cynicism becomes a real temptation.

Yet Scripture calls believers to something higher than bitterness. Hebrews says: “Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering; (for he is faithful that promised;)” — Hebrews 10:23 (KJV) Those words matter because there are seasons when holding onto faith feels less like victory and more like survival. Sometimes faithfulness is not triumphant shouting. Sometimes it’s simply refusing to let go of God while your heart aches. Sometimes it’s praying through tears. Sometimes it’s worshipping quietly after disappointment. Sometimes it’s choosing kindness toward those who misunderstand you instead of allowing resentment to harden your spirit.

The Christian life was never promised to be free from loneliness. In fact, conviction itself can become isolating. Standing for truth often means standing apart. But there’s a difference between being lonely and being abandoned. God has never abandoned those who remain faithful to Him. Galatians offers weary believers this encouragement: “And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” — Galatians 6:9 (KJV)

The Lord knew weariness would come. He knew some believers would grow tired from carrying the burden of remaining steadfast in a world growing colder toward Him. He knew there would be Christians praying alone for prodigal children, grieving spiritually distant spouses, and mourning friendships that dissolved because they chose to keep following Christ. And still He says, “faint not.” Not because believers are naturally strong, but because God Himself is faithful.

There is a peculiar beauty in quiet endurance. Heaven sees what the world overlooks. Every prayer whispered in loneliness. Every act of obedience done without applause. Every moment you chose conviction over compromise. Every tear cried because you loved people who no longer loved God the same way. The world may not celebrate steadfastness. But God does. And perhaps one day, when all things are made clear, those lonely years of remaining faithful will not feel wasted at all.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

Can God Still Use Me After I’ve Failed?

There are some failures that don’t just break our hearts, they change the way we look at ourselves. Some sins leave people bruised while others leave them haunted.

The addiction relapse after months clean. The divorce you never imagined would happen.                                              The sexual sin you promised God you would never return to again. The anger that exploded out of you and hurt someone you love. The slow drifting away from church because shame made walking through the doors feel impossible. The subtle denial of God—not with your mouth perhaps, but with silence, compromise, fear, or living like He was not worth standing for.

There are believers carrying these things quietly every day. They’re sitting in church pews with tears hidden behind smiles. Reading devotionals while secretly wondering if God is finally tired of them. Worshipping while feeling disqualified. And maybe the hardest part is not simply the failure itself. Maybe the hardest part is remembering who you used to think you were. Peter understood that feeling. He wasn’t just another disciple. He was bold, passionate, and loud in his devotion. The one who swore he would never leave Jesus, no matter what happened, while others hesitated. 

Peter spoke with confidence. Then pressure came, followed closely by fear. The man who once declared loyalty to Christ denied even knowing Him. Not once, but three times. Scripture says in Luke, that after the final denial: “And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter. And Peter remembered the word of the Lord… And Peter went out, and wept bitterly.” — Luke 22:61-62 (KJV)

That moment is almost unbearable to imagine. The eyes of Jesus meeting the eyes of Peter. Not after bravery, not after faithfulness, but after failure. Peter didn't just cry. The Bible says he “wept bitterly.” Those are the tears of someone crushed under the weight of what they have done. The kind of grief that makes your chest ache. The kind where shame whispers, “You are not who you thought you were”. And yet this is where so many hurting Christians stop the story. They remember Peter’s denial, but forget Peter’s restoration. Failure was not the end of Peter’s usefulness to God.

After the resurrection, Jesus met Peter again on the shoreline in John. Not to humiliate him, not to destroy him, not to say, “I’m done with you.” Instead, Jesus asked him three times: “Lovest thou me?”— John 21:15-17 (KJV) Three denials answered with three opportunities to reaffirm love. Jesus did not ignore Peter’s failure, but He also didn't define Peter by it. That matters deeply for every believer carrying shame today. The enemy wants you to believe your worst moment became your permanent identity. But Jesus still restores broken disciples.

There’s a quote often attributed to C. S. Lewis: “Failures are finger posts on the road to achievement.” That does not mean sin is harmless. Sin wounds us and certainly wounds others, but more importantly, it grieves the heart of God. But the grace of Christ is greater than the wreckage we create. Some Christians are living under a sentence Jesus never gave them. They’ve accepted forgiveness intellectually, but emotionally they still stand condemned. Every prayer feels awkward. Every worship song feels distant. Every stumble becomes “proof” that God must surely be finished with them now. But Romans says: “There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus…”  — Romans 8:1 (KJV)

Notice what that verse does not say,  There is no condemnation for believers who never struggled, or Christians with spotless records or fail again. It says no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus. Some of God’s most powerful servants in Scripture carried painful histories. David committed terrible sin and wept over the consequences. Jonah ran from God, Thomas doubted, Mark abandoned Paul during ministry, and Peter denied Christ. Yet God still used them. Not because their failures were small, but because His mercy was enormous.

There are people reading this who feel spiritually exhausted because they keep trying to earn their way back into God’s favor. But you cannot purchase what Jesus has already paid for at Calvary. Grace is not permission to continue in sin carelessly. But neither is failure proof that God has abandoned you. Sometimes the believer who has fallen hardest becomes the one most capable of showing compassion to others who are drowning. Your scars may someday become the place where another hurting person finally believes hope still exists.

John Newton, who once lived a deeply sinful life before coming to Christ, wrote these famous words: “Amazing grace! how sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me!” He didn't write as a man pretending he had never failed. He wrote as someone overwhelmed that God could love him despite it. And maybe that’s where healing begins. Not pretending your sin was insignificant, not excusing what happened or minimizing consequences. But finally believing that the blood of Jesus Christ is still sufficient for sinners who hate what they have done and long to come home.

Peter’s story did not end beside a fire of denial. It ended proclaiming Christ boldly. The disciple who collapsed in fear became a preacher of the Gospel because Jesus restores what shame says is ruined.

So if you are asking, “Can God still use me after I’ve failed?”

The answer is yes.

Yes, after the relapse. Yes, after the divorce. Yes, after the secret sin. Yes, after wandering from church. Yes, after your compromises and fears and regrets.

Not because your sin was small. But because Christ is still merciful. And maybe today, like Peter on that shoreline long ago, you will hear the gentle voice of the Savior calling you forward again instead of pushing you away.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

The Weight of Pretending You’re Okay

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from pretending. It’s not physical exhaustion, though that often comes with it. Or even the exhaustion of work, responsibility, or long sleepless nights. This kind of exhaustion settles deeper into the soul. It comes from smiling while quietly falling apart. From answering “I’m doing good” when your heart feels like it's collapsing inward one silent piece at a time.

For many hurting Christians, church has become one of the hardest places to be honest. Not because the people are always cruel. Often, they are kind people. Loving people. But somewhere along the way, many churches unknowingly created a culture where struggles are whispered about instead of carried together. A culture where strength is celebrated, but weakness is quietly uncomfortable. A culture where people feel pressured to look spiritually victorious even when they’re barely surviving.

So we learn to perform. We walk through church doors with polished smiles and rehearsed answers. We lift our hands during worship while anxiety claws at our chest. We tell people we are “blessed” while unraveling internally like a Walmart sweater caught on a nail. Thread by thread. Quietly. Publicly unseen.

And perhaps the saddest part is that many believers feel ashamed for hurting at all. As if depression means they don't really trust God. As if anxiety means they are failing spiritually. As if exhaustion is evidence of weak faith. But Scripture never paints God’s people as emotionless machines untouched by grief. Some of the strongest men and women in the Bible broke under the weight of life. Elijah had just experienced one of the greatest spiritual victories recorded in Scripture. Fire had fallen from Heaven. False prophets had been defeated. God had moved in undeniable power. Yet immediately afterward, Elijah fled into the wilderness exhausted, afraid, and deeply depressed. In 1 Kings 19:4, he sat beneath a juniper tree and prayed, “It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers.” This was not a faithless pagan speaking. This was a prophet of God.

One moment, Elijah stood boldly before kings. The next, he was overwhelmed by despair and asking God to let him die. That alone should remind us that spiritual victory does not make someone immune to emotional collapse. Sometimes the people shouting “Amen” the loudest are fighting battles no one else can see.

There are believers sitting in pews every Sunday carrying burdens so heavy they can barely breathe beneath them. Marriages crumbling behind closed doors. Secret addictions, financial fear and grief they cannot escape. Loneliness that follows them into crowded sanctuaries. Trauma they have never spoken aloud because they are terrified someone might see them differently. So instead, they become actors. Not maliciously, not hypocritically, but sSimply because they’re afraid. Afraid of being labeled weak. Afraid of becoming a prayer request instead of a person. Afraid that honesty might make people uncomfortable. And afraid that if others saw the depth of their struggle, they would be viewed as spiritually broken.

The Scottish minister Robert Murray M’Cheyne once wrote, “The seed of every known sin is in my heart.” There is a humility in that statement many churches have forgotten. We are all fragile people desperately dependent upon grace. Every single one of us and yet somehow, many believers feel more comfortable confessing victory than confessing pain. But Jesus never seemed repelled by hurting people. In fact, He moved toward them.

Isaiah 53:3 calls Christ “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.” Think about that for a moment. The Son of God entered human suffering personally. He knew betrayal, loneliness, weariness, rejection and yes, even grief. John 11:35 simply says, “Jesus wept.” The shortest verse in Scripture may also be one of the most comforting. Jesus stood at the tomb of Lazarus fully aware He was about to raise him from the dead, and still He wept. He was not embarrassed by sorrow. He did not rush grieving people through their pain. He entered it with them. That matters for those of us who feel ashamed of our tears.

I remember hearing about a woman who had attended church faithfully for years. Every Sunday she wore bright colors, greeted everyone warmly, and volunteered whenever she was needed. People often described her as “the joyful one.” What no one knew was that she cried herself to sleep most nights. After her husband left, she spiraled into a depression she did not know how to explain to anyone. Every week she sat in church terrified someone might ask how she was really doing. So she learned to answer quickly.

“Blessed.” “Hanging in there.” “God is good.”

And of course God was good. She believed that. But she was drowning. One Sunday after service, an older woman gently touched Claire’s arm and asked, “How’s your heart doing?”

Not “How are you?” Not “Everything okay?” But, “How’s your heart doing?”

Claire tried to give her usual answer, but instead she burst into tears right there in the hallway beside the nursery doors. And do you know what happened? The ceiling did not collapse, God did not shame her, and lightning didn’t fall from Heaven. Someone simply hugged her while she cried. Sometimes healing begins the moment we stop pretending.

Galatians 6:2 says, “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” Notice the command carefully. God never intended believers to carry crushing burdens alone. Christianity was never meant to be a performance competition where wounded people hide behind polished smiles. The church is supposed to be a refuge for the weary, not a stage where exhausted souls pretend they are okay. Yet many hurting Christians feel trapped between their pain and the fear of being honest about it.

And maybe that is where you are right now. Maybe you are tired of performing strength you no longer feel. Maybe you’re emotionally exhausted from trying to look spiritually “together.” Maybe you sit in church services feeling invisible even while surrounded by people. Maybe your faith still exists, but joy feels very far away.

Please hear this clearly:

Struggling does not make you less Christian. Crying does not make you weak. Depression is not proof that God has abandoned you. And needing help is not spiritual failure.

Sometimes the strongest thing a believer can do is finally admit, “I am not okay.” Because grace was never meant for the version of us pretending to have everything together. Grace meets us in the wreckage. In honesty, in weakness, and in the moments where masks finally fall to the floor and exhausted souls whisper, “I can’t carry this by myself anymore.” And maybe that is the beautiful thing about Jesus. He never demanded perfection from weary people before drawing near to them. He simply said, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

Not perform. Not impress. Not pretend.

Just come.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

When God Feels Silent

There are seasons in the Christian life that no one really prepares us for. Seasons where the worship songs no longer stir us the way they once did. Seasons where prayers become quieter, shorter, heavier. Seasons where we sit on the edge of the bed late at night staring into the dark, wondering why Heaven suddenly feels so far away.

And perhaps one of the loneliest parts of all is how guilty we feel for even admitting it.

Because somewhere along the way, many believers were taught that if God feels distant, it must mean we have failed Him somehow. Maybe our faith is too weak. Maybe our prayers are not sincere enough. Maybe there is hidden sin in our lives. Maybe we are simply not “good Christians.”

So we smile in church. We say we are “blessed.” We quote Scripture through trembling lips while silently wondering why the God we love seems so unbearably quiet.

But silence is not abandonment.

Some of the holiest people in Scripture walked through valleys where God seemed painfully silent. David, the man after God’s own heart, cried out in Psalm 13:1, “How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?” Even Jesus Himself, hanging on the cross in agony, cried, “ My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” in Matthew 27:46. These are not the words of rebellious unbelievers. These are the cries of wounded hearts reaching for God in the dark.

There is something deeply human about silence. We can endure pain more easily than uncertainty. At least pain speaks. Silence leaves us alone with our thoughts. Alone with our fears. Alone with the terrible whisper that asks, “What if God does not hear me anymore?”

Maybe you know that feeling.

Maybe you have prayed for healing that never came. Maybe you begged God to save your marriage while watching it slowly collapse anyway. Maybe you pleaded for direction and received only stillness. Maybe you sat beside a hospital bed asking God for one miracle more, only to walk away carrying grief instead.

And perhaps the hardest part is watching other Christians speak so confidently about hearing God while you struggle just to feel that He’s near.

It can make a person feel defective. Forgotten. Spiritually broken.

But Scripture paints a different picture entirely. In 1 Kings 19, Elijah collapsed beneath a juniper tree exhausted, afraid, and ready to die. This mighty prophet who had called down fire from Heaven now sat alone in despair saying, “It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life.” God did not answer Elijah with condemnation. He answered him with gentleness. 

Sometimes we imagine God standing over our weakness with disappointment, when in reality He kneels beside it with compassion. The poet William Cowper, who battled deep depression for much of his life, once wrote, “Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace; behind a frowning providence, He hides a smiling face.” Cowper understood what many suffering believers understand all too well: feelings are not always faithful narrators of truth. A silent Heaven does not mean an absent God.

That truth becomes difficult to hold when the silence stretches on. There was a fictional story I once heard about a woman named Anna who drove to work every morning praying the exact same prayer: “Lord, please just let me know You’re still there.” Day after day, month after month, she heard nothing. No miraculous signs. No sudden peace. No dramatic breakthrough. Only silence.

One icy morning after another sleepless night, Anna sat in her car gripping the steering wheel while tears rolled down her face. She whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.” Just then, her phone buzzed. It was a message from an elderly woman at church she barely knew. The message simply said, “I don’t know why, but the Lord placed you heavily on my heart this morning. You are not alone.”

That was all, nothing more. At the surface, it seemed random and almost meaningless. No thunder from Heaven. No spectacular miracle. Just a small reminder arriving at the exact moment her soul was slipping beneath the water. Perhaps that’s how God often works in silent seasons. Not always through dramatic displays, but through quiet mercies we almost overlook. Daily bread instead of overflowing tables. A flicker instead of fireworks. Enough grace for this moment, but rarely enough to calm all our fears about tomorrow.

Isaiah 50:10 asks a painfully honest question: “Who is among you that feareth the LORD… that walketh in darkness, and hath no light?” Notice that Scripture acknowledges such people exist. Faithful people. Reverent people. People who love God and still walk through darkness.

And what are they told to do? “…let him trust in the name of the LORD, and stay upon his God.” Not because it’s easy. Not because they understand. But because God’s character is still trustworthy even when His voice grows quiet. Some of the deepest roots of faith are not formed in joy, but rather silence. Anyone can worship when prayers are answered quickly. But there’s something sacred about the believer who still whispers, “I trust You,” through tears. The believer who still opens their Bible while feeling numb. The believer who still prays even when the room feels empty.

That kind of faith may not look triumphant from the outside. But Heaven sees it differently.

Perhaps you are in that place right now. Tired. Discouraged. Wondering if God has forgotten your name.

He has not.

Your pain has not made Him leave. Your questions have not frightened Him away. Your weariness has not exhausted His mercy.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.”

Not “the perfect.” Not “the always joyful.” Not “the spiritually impressive.”

The brokenhearted. Sometimes God feels closest in retrospect. We only recognize His footprints after we survive the valley that we were certain would destroy us. And until then, perhaps faith is simply this: continuing to reach toward a silent God because somewhere deep in our aching hearts, we still believe He is listening.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

Finding Purpose in the Pain?

There is a quiet kind of suffering that doesn’t just hurt—it confuses. It leaves you searching for answers that never quite come, replaying moments, asking why, wondering if you’ve missed something, or worse… if God is trying to say something through the pain.

For many of us, we’ve been told—gently or firmly—that there must be a purpose behind what we’re going through. That somehow, hidden beneath the grief, the loss, the diagnosis, the heartbreak… There’s a divine reason waiting to be uncovered. And while that idea may be meant to comfort, it can also press heavily on an already crushed spirit.

We reason with ourselves, If there must be a purpose, then why can’t we see it? And if we can’t find it… are we failing God in our pain? The truth is, not every wound comes with an explanation neatly attached. Not every loss carries a visible reason that can be seen from this side of heaven. And Scripture does not demand that we decode our suffering in order to endure it faithfully. In fact, the Word reminds us of something far more tender. “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” Psalm 34:18 (KJV) Notice what it does not say? It doesn't say the Lord explains every broken heart. It says He draws near to it.

There’s a dangerous weight in believing that every tragedy was specifically placed in our lives for a defined purpose. Because then we’re left trying to assign meaning to things that feel utterly meaningless. What purpose could there be in the loss of a child? In the slow fading of someone you love? In a diagnosis that changes everything in a single moment?

Some pain simply is—a result of a fallen world groaning under the weight of sin and brokenness. As it’s written: “For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.” — Romans 8:22 (KJV) This world breaks things. It breaks bodies. It breaks hearts. It breaks lives in ways that no explanation can fully mend. And yet—even here—God isn’t absent.

We are not left alone to wander through the wreckage, trying to “find purpose” as though it were a hidden treasure buried beneath our suffering. Instead, we’re invited to walk through the valley with a Shepherd who does not always tell us why, but who never leaves us to face it alone. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…” Psalm 23:4 (KJV) There is a difference between God causing pain for a purpose and God redeeming pain despite its senselessness. One places the burden on you to figure it out. The other places your hand in His and says, “Just keep walking with Me.”

Over time—sometimes long after the storm has passed—you may begin to see glimpses of how God gently weaves even the darkest threads into something that can help someone else. A word of comfort you’re able to give. A depth of compassion you didn’t have before. A quiet strength that only suffering could shape. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God…” — Romans 8:28 (KJV) But notice again—it does not say all things are good. It says God can work them together for good. That is very different from saying the pain itself had a purpose.

You do not need to justify your suffering to prove your faith. You don’t need to find meaning in your wounds to make them worthwhile or somehow “real”. And you are most certainly not failing, if all you can do right now, is hold on. Sometimes faith looks less like understanding and more like endurance. Less like clarity and more like clinging. The poet C. S. Lewis once wrote, “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains.” But even in that, the “shout” is not always an explanation—it is often a reminder of His presence in places we would never choose to go.

So, if you are hurting—deeply, confused, lost, and without answers—hear this clearly:

You are allowed to grieve without solving it. You are allowed to hurt without explaining it. You are allowed to walk with God without understanding the road.

He is not waiting for you to make sense of your pain. He is simply walking with you through it.

And maybe, someday, perhaps far down the road, you’ll look back and see how He carried you, how He softened something in you, how He used your story to reach someone else who felt just as lost as you once did.

But that is not your burden to carry today.Today, your only calling is this: Stay with Him… and let Him stay with you.

[ourthreadsofgrace]

“Church Hurt”: When Wounded by People, Not Abandoned by God

There's a particular kind of pain that many believers quietly carry—a pain often referred to as “church hurt.” It is not just disappointment, and it's more than just disagreement. It is something deeper, something that touches the heart in a sacred way. This "hurt" inevitably feels much like betrayal, happening in the very space where we expected love, safety, and truth. Where we felt permitted to be vulnerable.

Church hurt can take many forms. For some, it's the sting of betrayal—trusting a leader or fellow believer, only to be misled, judged unfairly, or even manipulated. For others, it is rejection—feeling unseen, unwelcome, or pushed aside because they didn’t fit a certain mold. Some experience harsh words spoken in the name of correction, but without the spirit of love. Others carry wounds from hypocrisy—watching people profess Christ with their lips yet live in ways that feel deeply inconsistent with His teachings.

There are also quieter forms of hurt. Being overlooked or being forgotten. Serving faithfully but feeling unappreciated. Sitting in a room full of people yet still feeling alone. These wounds are real. They matter. And they should not be dismissed. Scripture itself acknowledges that even among God’s people, there will be failure. In fact, we are reminded plainly: “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23, KJV) The church is not a gathering of perfect people—it is a gathering of those in need of grace. Every pastor, every leader, every member is still in the process of being shaped, corrected, and refined. This does not excuse harmful behavior, but it does explain its origin: broken humanity.

Even within the early church, there were conflicts, misunderstandings, and failures. The apostle Paul urged believers: “Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.” (Colossians 3:13, KJV) Why would such instruction be necessary, unless offense was inevitable? It's important to say this clearly: being hurt in the church is not the same as being hurt by God. When people fail us, it can be tempting to pull away entirely—not just from the church, but from the Lord Himself. The pain can blur the lines, making it feel as though God has failed us, too. But Scripture gently calls us back to truth: “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.” (Hebrews 13:8, KJV)

God’s character does not shift with human inconsistency! His love does not waver because someone misrepresented Him. His faithfulness is not diminished by another person’s failure. In fact, the Bible warns us not to anchor our faith in people: “It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man.” (Psalm 118:8, KJV) This is not a call to isolation, but a reminder of the foundation. People will fail. God will not.

Even in moments of deep hurt, the Lord draws near: “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” (Psalm 34:18, KJV) He does not ignore your pain. He does not rush you through it. He meets you in it. And yet, even in the midst of hurt, Scripture calls us to something incredibly difficult—but deeply freeing: “Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled.” (Hebrews 12:15, KJV)

Bitterness can take root when wounds go untreated. It can quietly shape our view of others, of the church, and even of God. Left unchecked, it doesn’t just affect our past—it begins to poison our future. This is why walking away from the Lord because of church hurt ultimately deepens the wound rather than heals it. The very One who can restore, comfort, and bring clarity is the One we need most in that moment.

Jesus Himself experienced betrayal, rejection, and abandonment—often from those closest to Him. Yet He remained anchored in the Father. And He invites us to do the same: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28, KJV)

Church hurt is real—but it is not final. Your story does not have to end in pain or distance. Healing is possible. Trust can be rebuilt—not necessarily in the same people, but in the God who never failed you. And over time, even wounds can become places where grace grows deeper and stronger. The church may be imperfect, but Christ is not. And it is still through Him—and often, even through imperfect people—that restoration comes.

If you have been hurt, take heart: God has not moved. He is still near. He is still faithful. And He is still able to heal what others have broken.