With a Heavy Heart

She didn’t scream.
She didn’t throw anything or curse the heavens.
She just stood there — in the middle of the room, phone in hand, heart somewhere between her ribs and the floor.

The message was short. Clean. No fluff.
"Unfortunately, ..."

Unfortunately! Again??

She laughed — not the funny kind, but the broken kind that tries to stitch up a crack with sound.
Because deep down, she’d already said yes. In faith. In prayer. In plans.
She had bought the metaphorical balloons, baked the cake, sent out silent thank-you notes to God.

And now?
Now she just stood there.
Still. Small. Stung.







You know that feeling?

That quiet ache in your chest when you’re smiling through the tears. When you’ve prayed, fasted, quoted all the right Scriptures, posted the encouragements, declared the promises, and yet—your heart feels like it’s carrying bricks.

That’s me. Or was me. Or… maybe still is me. I honestly don’t even know how I feel. It’s like I cast my burdens on Jesus… but then managed to sneakily collect them back like, “Sorry Lord, I’ll just take this one for emotional support.”

Ridiculous, I know. But painfully human.

There’s a kind of “no” that hurts differently. The kind that wasn’t casual. The kind that looked like your breakthrough. The kind you had room prepared for. A “yes” you were already thanking God for—until it never came. And somehow, you’re left mourning a version of life that never even got a chance to exist.

It’s strange, isn’t it? This sacred tension between pain and praise. Between grief and gratitude. You cry because you believed. You worship because you still do.

And I’ll be honest, faith feels heavier when you know what a “yes” could’ve changed. But I’m learning—slowly, stubbornly—that even in the middle of that ache, God is still good. Even when I don’t feel it. Even when I don’t see it. Even when I’m not sure what to do with myself.

So here’s what I’m doing:
I’m choosing joy. Not the fluffy, Instagram version. But the kind that whispers “God’s got me” even while I sob in the bathroom.
I’m choosing to trust. Not blindly. But with clenched fists and a shaky voice saying, “Lord, I believe… help my unbelief.”
And I’m choosing gratitude. Not because it’s easy. But because my hope is not just in what He gives, but in who He is.

So yes… this is me, with a heavy heart.
Still standing. Still worshipping. Still believing.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5 (KJV)

Because God’s track record with me? Impeccable.

And this too—this moment, this storm, this silence—will pass.

Amen.



With Love and Learning,

Erin.

1 Comments

  1. Anonymous28 May 2025 at 14:27

    Go girl! The Lord is your muscle.

    ReplyDelete