April 22nd, 2025

 

Wandering.
Wandering.
Wandering.

Do you hear it?
That faint beckon in the wind—
a whisper to turn back,
to change course.
“Danger,” it cries.
“It’s not too late,” it promises.

There’s a call out upon the water—
a hand reaching down,
pulling up.
But can it be trusted?
Is it worth the risk?

What you’ve been doing to cope…
it isn’t working, is it?
Just a temporary bandage
on a gaping wound
no bitter water
or borrowed high
will ever mend.

“What then, will?” I ask.
I reached for Your hand before,
but it wasn’t there.
I screamed Your name—
only to be met with silence.

Can You really take me deeper
than my feet could ever wander?
Can You make my faith stronger?
Can I still walk upon the water
when it’s You who calls me?

Because I’m trying—
but the grief pulls me under
again and again.
How do I keep my eyes above the waves
when the sorrow is louder than Your voice?

Wandered.
Wandering.
Wandering still.

 

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Later

Maybe I won’t hear You today.
Maybe the silence will linger
longer than I can bear.
And maybe I’ll still wonder
if I did something wrong—
if I was somehow too much,
or not enough.

But I’m tired of running from the ache.
So I’m sitting with it now.
Letting it sting. Letting it speak.

I’m not going to pretend I trust You.
But I want to.
God, I want to.

So if You’re still there—
if You ever were—
meet me here.
Not on the mountaintop.
Not in the miracle.
But right here,
in the unraveling.

I’ll take one breath.
Then maybe, one step.

And if I can’t walk on water,
then at least let me float
in whatever grace I can still cling to.

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