This piece is written as a prayer rather than an essay. It’s raw, unfinished, and comes from the middle of waiting. I offer it here in the hope that others who feel the same might know they are not alone.
“Whom have I in heaven but You?
And earth has nothing I desire besides You.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.”
— Psalm 73:25–26
Lord,
Why am I the way I am?
Why don’t I have the kind of drive others seem to carry so effortlessly?
Why do I struggle to know what I want, to name a clear path forward?
I look around and see people chasing dreams, working toward goals, building lives with certainty and direction.
But I often feel suspended… adrift… unable to tell which way is up.
It’s not that I don’t want to live meaningfully.
It’s that I can’t seem to name what that would even look like anymore.
I’ve asked You again and again:
What am I good at? What do I do with what’s in my hands?
How can I walk into a future I cannot see, with gifts I cannot name?
And You remain… quiet.
I won’t lie, Lord.
Sometimes it crosses my mind that You are cruel.
Not because You are, but because it feels that way when You hold back what I long for.
And yet, even that thought I cannot fully entertain…
Because I have known You.
Known You as kind.
As gentle.
As patient with my aching, my stumbling, my delays.
You’ve always taken care of me.
Even when I didn’t know what I needed.
Even when I didn’t know how to ask.
Even now, when I can barely speak.
I know You love me, even if I don’t feel it today.
I know You’re with me, even if You do not answer.
I know Your mercy is still holding me together, even as my questions fall apart.
And I know that no one else can bear the weight of these cries but You.
So I come again,
not with solutions,
not with requests,
but with empty hands.
You disappoint me, Lord.
And still, You are my everything.
I don’t know what to ask anymore.
But maybe that, too, is prayer.
Maybe it’s enough that I show up.
That I turn to You even in my confusion.
That I wait, not because I see the way forward, but because I believe You do.
Let this waiting be worship.
Let this aching be an altar.
Let this confusion be a kind of trust.
Because even now, You are still God.
Even now, You are still here.
Even here, I am still Yours.
Amen.
If you’re in a season of waiting, confusion, or silence, I hope these words remind you that you are not alone. Sometimes, simply turning toward God is itself an act of faith. And sometimes, the most honest prayer is simply to keep showing up.