(Written from the heart, in the tradition of the Psalms) O Lord, I come to You not with strength, but with what remains after strength has been spent. I am tired beyond sleep. I am weary beyond words. My bones ache not from labor alone, but from carrying sorrow that never seems to end. I look around and see no family standing with me. My mother is gone, taken by suicide, before she could ever bless me. In fact in her letter I was the reason, my God was false, were her last words. My father lives, yet has told me I am unworthy of his name. And has found his God in a bottle My brother wanders the streets, Fentanyl has got him under it's grip. and I cannot reach him. My family has turned their faces away, as though my very existence offends them. What you said would be favour to come has turned to dust. I have no table where I am welcomed. No house where I am expected. No voice calling to ask if I am still standing. Even the places meant for refuge feel silent. I walked into Your house seeking fellowship, but the shepherd did not answer when I called. The room was small, the people were few, and still I felt unseen. Lord, I gave my life to serving others. I carried hundreds, made time for all, listened, answered, stayed late, showed up. And now I stand here asking, does anyone see me at all? Like David, I feel accused without trial. Like David, I am spoken of in whispers. Like David, I am faithful in private, yet treated as though I am faithless. Those who know nothing of my nights question my heart. Those who have never carried my burden judge my steps. Like Elijah, I have run until there was nothing left. I have outrun despair only to collapse beneath it. I have said the words I never wanted to say, It is enough, Lord. Not because I want to die, but because I no longer know how to keep going alone, and like Elijah I ask for the mercy of death. And like Jeremiah, there are days I curse the day I was born. Days I ask why light was given to me at all.

“Still Standing in the Dark” I am tired in places sleep can’t reach,Where prayers echo before they land.I’ve learned how to smile with a fractured soul,And shake hands with grief like an old friend. I carry days that never made sense,Nights that asked questions God didn’t answer out loud.I’ve screamed into silence, begged for a sign,And whispered faith through a mouth full of doubt. There are wounds no one ever sees,Because I learned early how to be strong.I held the world together with shaking handsWhile quietly wondering how long. I’ve bled in rooms full of people,Felt invisible under fluorescent light.I’ve done everything right on the outsideAnd still lost every fight at night. I’ve loved with my whole damn heart,And watched it be misunderstood.I gave grace when I needed rescue,And called it “growth” because I should. Sometimes I envy the broken who break,Who fall apart and finally rest.But I was built to endure the storm,Even when endurance feels like a test. God, I’m still here, but I’m so worn thin.Still breathing, but barely whole.If this is the road to becoming new,Why does it cost so much of my soul? If You’re near, then sit with me here,In the quiet where courage fades.Don’t rush the healing, don’t dress the wound,Just stay while the pain says what it needs to say. Because I’m not faithless, I’m just exhausted.Not lost, just aching for home.Still standing in the dark, Lord—But standing is all I’ve known.

This space is small right now, and I’m actually grateful for that. It gives room for honesty without performance. If you’re here, I’d love to know: What season are you walking through right now? For me, holidays are really tough, let’s have a dialogue:)

What’s one thing you’ve been carrying this week that you haven’t said out loud yet?

There is a reason Psalm 88 exists. There is a reason God let the darkest chapter in Scripture remain untouched. Because this is the psalm for a man who has walked through nights that felt endless, seasons where answers did not come quickly, and valleys where faith had to survive without feelings. This is the psalm for a man like me. A man who has prayed in the night and woken up with the same weight still on his shoulders. A man who has fought battles that no one saw, carried burdens that stretched the soul, and stood in places where only God could reach. When Psalm 88 ends with the words, *darkness is my closest friend*, I understand the honesty. I have known nights where the silence felt thick and the world felt distant. Not because hope was gone, but because the refining was deep. Because the wilderness was real. Because God was shaping something in me that comfort alone could not build. The psalm begins by calling God *the God of my salvation*. That opening line reveals the truth: even in his anguish, the psalmist knew where to turn. I have known this too. Even in my lowest moments—through heartbreak, through fatherhood battles, through anxiety, through burnout, through spiritual warfare—I knew where my help came from. I knew who I was calling. I have cried out like the psalmist. Day and night. In tears. In exhaustion. In silence. Yet every cry was still an act of faith. Every call into the night was a declaration that I believed God was listening, even when I did not feel Him. The psalmist speaks of feeling close to the grave, overwhelmed, forgotten, cut off, placed in the lowest pit. I have walked through valleys that felt exactly like that. I have experienced betrayal, rejection, exhaustion, and the weight of carrying my son through storms that shook me to the core. I have prayed in places where I did not feel heard. I have stretched my hands toward heaven while my heart trembled. But honesty in suffering is not rebellion. It is worship. Psalm 88 teaches me that God invites me to bring the truth of what I feel, even when the truth is heavy. Even when the truth has no bow tied around it. Even when the prayer ends without resolution.