Held Through It All

I don’t always know what tomorrow will bring. Some days, it feels like standing in thick fog—barely able to see one step ahead, heart heavy with questions that have no quick answers. I try to plan, to steady myself, to find comfort in something predictable. But life rarely goes as planned. It shifts. It bends. It changes faster than I can catch my breath.

For a long time, that used to scare me. I wanted to know how everything would work out, to see what was coming before it came. But maybe that’s the beauty of faith—it doesn’t promise a clear view. It promises a steady hand to hold when the road disappears.

There have been seasons where hope felt paper-thin. Times when my prayers were more whispers than words, when I wondered if God still heard me. Days when I didn’t feel strong or brave or even remotely faithful. I’d sit in the quiet, feeling small, wondering if I had anything left to offer Him.

But here’s what I’ve learned, slowly and painfully and beautifully: God never asked me to be unbreakable. He never required me to have it all together. He just asked me to keep showing up.

And somehow, He always meets me right there—right in the middle of my exhaustion, my fears, and my unanswered questions. He doesn’t rush me through my pain. He doesn’t roll His eyes at my doubt. He just stays. Quietly. Steadily. Faithfully.

That’s what real love looks like. It doesn’t always fix everything immediately, but it holds you until the light starts to seep back in.

If you’ve ever been there—you know what I mean. The kind of season where you feel stretched thin, where even getting through the day feels like an act of courage. Maybe you’ve been praying for something that hasn’t happened yet. Maybe you’re fighting a battle no one sees. Maybe you’re holding it all together on the outside while falling apart on the inside.

Can I tell you something? You’re not forgotten. You’re not failing. You’re not alone.

The same God who spoke stars into the sky still speaks life into you. The same hands that lifted Peter out of the water are the same hands that are holding you now.

Even when you can’t feel Him—He’s there. Even when you can’t see the way forward—He’s already making one.

I used to think miracles always meant big, show-stopping moments. But I’m learning that sometimes, the miracle is just that we’re still here. Still breathing. Still believing. Still finding beauty in places we once thought were barren.

There’s something holy about that—about choosing to stay when everything in you wants to run. About whispering “thank You” even when you’re still waiting for the breakthrough. About realizing that your strength doesn’t come from having all the answers, but from knowing who’s holding you in the uncertainty.

So tonight, I’m not asking for all the pieces to fit together. I’m not asking for clarity or closure or control. I’m just whispering a quiet prayer of gratitude—for grace that stays, for love that never lets go, for a Savior who steadies me when the ground beneath me shakes.

Because even if I don’t know what tomorrow holds…
I do know who holds me.
And somehow, that’s enough.