“Shout joyfully to the Lord, all the earth. Come worshiping before the throne of God. For the Lord, He is good and His love endures forever.”
These words have been echoing in my heart like a steady rhythm, a reminder that even when life feels overwhelming, God’s presence does not leave. His goodness doesn’t vanish in the storm, and His love doesn’t weaken when my strength does.
Lately, my life feels like a fragile balance between clinging to hope and not collapsing under the weight of worry. My husband and I are walking through a season we never expected—his struggles with seizures and depression have reshaped our days in ways I couldn’t have imagined. I’ve spent long nights awake, thoughts racing with questions that have no answers and fears I can’t silence. And yet, in the middle of it all, I hear that whisper: “Enter in. Bring words of praise and offerings of thanksgiving.”
At first, it feels impossible. How do I shout joyfully when my heart feels so heavy? How do I lift my hands when they’re tired from carrying so much? Still, the invitation remains—not only for the days when joy comes easily, but for the days when I am broken, worn, and undone.
To enter His gates, I don’t have to come polished or pretending. I come as I am—with tears, with questions, with the raw truth of my weakness. Sometimes my “praise” is nothing more than whispering, “Lord, I need You,” as I pour my first cup of coffee. Other times, thanksgiving looks like noticing one small gift: my husband’s smile after a hard day, the comfort of our dog beside me, the sunlight spilling across the floor. These offerings may not feel grand, but they are real. And real is enough.
There is something powerful about lifting my hands, even when my heart feels weak. It is a posture of surrender, a declaration that I cannot carry this on my own. Worship, I am learning, isn’t about pretending to be strong. It’s about bringing my weakness to God and still choosing to praise. On the days when fear presses hard, lifting my hands reminds me that my life, my husband’s life, and our future rest in stronger hands than mine.
And that changes everything.
Walking into His courts isn’t about entering a place—it’s about entering His presence. And His presence meets me wherever I am: in the hospital room, in the quiet of the car, in my journaling, even in those small bursts of laughter that break through the heaviness. When I turn my eyes to Him instead of the storm, my heart remembers what is true: He is still worthy. He is still King. And yes, even in sorrow, I can adore Him.
“For the Lord, He is good and His love endures.”
I hold onto these words like a lifeline: His love endures. Endurance means staying power. His love is not fragile; it doesn’t abandon me when life is messy. It holds steady through seizures, through depression, through sleepless nights and fears that threaten to take over.
Thanksgiving, I’ve realized, isn’t about ignoring pain. It’s about finding God’s goodness in the middle of it. Gratitude shifts my perspective—it keeps me from being swallowed by everything that feels wrong and opens my eyes to what is still beautiful. A shared laugh, unexpected strength, the release that comes in writing—these are gifts, sacred reminders that even here, God is near.
The truth is, worship is a choice. It’s not always a feeling. It’s deciding to turn my eyes toward God when circumstances beg me not to. It’s shouting joyfully not because life is joyful, but because He is joy. And sometimes the most powerful worship rises through tears, declaring, “Lord, You are good, and I will trust You,” even when life hurts.
In choosing worship, I find healing. My fear softens, my hope strengthens, and I remember that I am not alone.
If you’re walking through your own hard season, hear this: you’re not alone either. Sometimes worship feels out of reach. Sometimes life feels unbearably heavy. But the invitation is still for you. Enter His gates with whatever you have, even if it’s only a sigh, a whisper, or a broken hallelujah.
Because the Lord is good. His love endures. And He meets us right where we are, every time.
These words I carry—“Shout joyfully to the Lord, all the earth. Come worshiping before the throne of God. For the Lord, He is good and His love endures forever”—are not just lyrics or scripture. They are truth. They are a way to live.
So today, I choose to enter in. To lift my hands. To bring what little I have as an offering. To adore Him, not because life is easy, but because His majesty is worthy. And as I do, I find that joy does not come from everything being fixed. Joy comes from His presence. Joy comes from the assurance that His love truly endures—yesterday, today, and forever.
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