Mine is a brain that can’t stop wandering. I have lacked a way to tame my thoughts. When you have a void, it’s obvious to try filling it with all things and see if they fit. But when they don’t, you become wholly frustrated, you feel lost, you feel forgotten, you feel like the world is ending. You feel like you are drowning, and there’s no one to hold your hand. No one to save you.
Is this how everyone feels when they walk this life alone? Is this what it’s like when we try to do things on our own, forgetting the One who writes our stories? Or when we chase after things that were never meant to sustain us? I don’t like the feeling. I never did. But maybe that’s where life meets us, at the crossroads of longing and learning.
Seated here, I realize how much life has unfolded since my last words found you. The girl who once wrote about seasons changing now understands that they don’t always shift on schedule. That sometimes, winter lingers, and sometimes, what looks like spring is only a brief pause before another storm.
Earlier this year, I took a bold step and joined Shujaa, an apprenticeship program that runs for the whole of this year. In the months since, I have confronted the rawest parts of myself; my past, my choices, my identity. I have had to unlearn things I once held dear and relearn the truth about who I am. Not who the world told me I should be, but who I have always been in Christ.
For the longest time, I sought love in all the wrong places. I chased validation, thinking it would fill the hollow spaces within me. But love, real, unshakable love; was never meant to be found in mere human hands. It was always in the One who formed me, the One who calls me His.
I have made mistakes. I have been bruised by my own decisions and by the expectations of a world that never really sees the heart. But in these wounds, I have found grace. I have learned that my identity is not something I need to strive for, it is something I already possess. I am a beloved daughter, a royal citizen with a Kingdom vision, a sage learning wisdom, a warrior on a mission, and a friend in the community. My task is not to create myself, but to activate who I already am.
The journey has not been easy. Healing never is. But I am no longer walking in circles, trying to force pieces into a puzzle they were never meant for. I am walking with the One who goes before me, beside me, and within me. And He – He is greater than anything in this world.
So, here I am. Back with a bang. Not because I have everything figured out, but because I finally know where to anchor myself. The seasons have changed, but this time, I am not merely surviving them: I am becoming through them.
The older I get, the more I realize that perfection in a person is an illusion. We spend so much of our lives imagining that somewhere out there is a person who will get everything right; someone who will always say the right thing, always know what we need, never disappoint us, never hurt us, never have a bad day, never struggle with their own wounds, and somehow love us perfectly every single time. We can become so consumed with finding the “right” person that we forget that the person we are looking for is also human. They will have flaws. They will have fears. They will have moments where they get it wrong. They will have things they are still learning about themselves. And so will we. Because the truth is, perfection was never the standard for humanity. God is perfect; people are not.
And perhaps that is one of the most beautiful things about God. He is the only One who is actually perfect, yet His perfection does not cause Him to distance Himself from imperfect people. Instead, He pursues us. Consistently. Patiently. Relentlessly. He knows us completely, the beautiful parts, the broken parts, the parts we are proud of and the parts we desperately wish He would overlook—and still, He comes looking for us. He doesn’t wait until we’ve become the people we promised ourselves we would be. He doesn’t say, “Fix yourself first, then come to Me.” He meets us in the middle of our becoming. He corrects us, restores us, forgives us, teaches us and calls us forward. The perfect God continually pursues imperfect people. And there is something incredibly humbling about that.
The older I get, the more I realize that perfection was never the standard God gave us for one another. Grace was. We are called to forgive because people will fail us. We are called to be patient because people will grow slowly. We are called to be kind because people will sometimes be difficult, wounded, afraid or simply incapable of giving us what we need in a particular moment. We are called to love because none of us will ever become worthy of love through perfection. We are called to bear with one another because God already knew we would need to learn how to extend grace to people who don’t always get it right. And if God, who actually is perfect, chooses to pursue imperfect people relentlessly, who are we to demand perfection from the people we love?
This doesn’t mean we should excuse everything in the name of grace. Grace is not tolerating abuse. Forgiveness is not pretending that something didn’t hurt. Patience does not mean allowing someone to repeatedly break you without accountability. Loving someone does not mean abandoning your boundaries or accepting a person who has no desire to grow. There is a difference between someone who is imperfect and someone who is unwilling to become better. But perhaps we need to become better at recognizing the difference. We need to leave room for people to be human while still expecting them to take responsibility for the ways their humanity affects others. We can say, “You hurt me,” and still choose kindness. We can say, “That wasn’t okay,” and still offer forgiveness. We can hold someone accountable without believing that one mistake defines their entire character.
Maybe that is what makes love so beautiful. Not that we find someone who never fails us, but that we find someone who is humble enough to acknowledge when they have. Someone who can apologize without being forced. Someone who can listen without immediately becoming defensive. Someone who can recognize that loving you means learning you. And perhaps just as importantly, someone who gives you room to do the same. Because love is not two perfect people arriving fully formed at the same destination. It is two imperfect people continually learning how to love better, communicate better, forgive better, and become better. It is choosing grace without abandoning wisdom, choosing patience without losing yourself, and choosing forgiveness without pretending that growth isn’t necessary.
And maybe I am learning to give people the same grace I keep asking God to give me. Because how can I pray for God to be patient with my process while demanding that everyone else have theirs figured out? How can I ask Him to forgive my mistakes while keeping a permanent record of everyone else’s? How can I celebrate the fact that God sees my heart beyond my worst moments and then reduce someone else to theirs? Maybe grace becomes most beautiful when we realize that we are not merely called to receive it, we are called to extend it.
I don’t want to believe in perfect people anymore. I want to believe in people who are honest about their imperfections. People who are willing to grow. People who know how to say “I was wrong.” People who understand that love requires humility, forgiveness, patience and kindness. People who are still becoming, just like me.
Because perfection belongs to God. Grace is what He gave us.
And maybe the most beautiful kind of love isn’t finding someone who never gets it wrong.
Maybe it is finding someone who, despite being imperfect, keeps choosing to get better and choosing to love you better.
And perhaps that is what God has been teaching us all along: we were never asked to be perfect for one another. We were asked to love one another well❤️
I think one of the greatest fears we carry when it comes to love is the fear of choosing the wrong person. We date. We get to know someone. We spend months learning their personality, their values, their heart, their flaws, their dreams and their faith. At first, everything feels exciting because there is nothing to lose yet. You are simply getting to know each other. But then, somewhere along the way, things begin to become serious. Feelings deepen. Intentions become clearer. Conversations about the future begin to happen. And suddenly, the questions begin. Is he the one? Is this really what God wants for me? What if I am making a mistake? What if there is someone better? What if I marry the wrong person?
We can become so consumed with the fear of making the wrong choice that we forget something fundamental: we are not choosing a spouse without God. Sometimes we talk about relationships as though God gives us one perfect person somewhere in the world and our entire destiny depends on whether we somehow manage to find them. As though there is one person with our name written on them, and if we accidentally date the wrong person for too long, we have somehow ruined God’s plan for our lives. But is that really how we understand the God we say we trust?
The Holy Spirit lives in us. God has given us His Word. He gives us wisdom. He gives us discernment. He gives us peace. He speaks, redirects, convicts, confirms and closes doors. He is not standing at a distance watching us desperately try to solve the mystery of “Who is my person?” while hoping we somehow get it right. We are His children. And perhaps one of the things we need to recover in dating is trust. Trust that God is capable of leading us. Trust that if something is wrong, He is capable of showing us. Trust that if we are moving in a direction He does not want for us, He is capable of interrupting us. Trust that obedience will matter more than our ability to perfectly predict the future.
Because the goal of dating should not be to become so terrified of choosing the wrong person that we analyse every text, every feeling, every disagreement and every uncertainty as though we are trying to decode a divine secret. The goal should be to walk with God while getting to know another person. There is a difference between discernment and anxiety. Discernment asks, “What is true? What fruit is this relationship producing? Does this person love God? Do our values align? Is there character here? Is there wisdom in continuing?” Anxiety asks, “What if I get this wrong?” Discernment observes. Anxiety spirals. Discernment can wait. Anxiety demands certainty immediately. And sometimes, what we call “waiting on God” is actually our inability to trust Him with the decision.
We want God to give us a guarantee before we take another step. “God, tell me with absolute certainty that this is the person.” But perhaps God is inviting us into something deeper than certainty. Trust. Because marriage is not a decision you make knowing everything about a person. You make a decision based on what you have come to know, the character you have observed, the counsel you have received, the wisdom God has given you and the direction of the Holy Spirit—and then you continue choosing each other.
There will always be things you do not know. You cannot know exactly who someone will become five, ten or twenty years from now. You cannot predict every challenge you will face together. You cannot guarantee that there will never be conflict, disappointment or seasons of uncertainty. So if your peace depends on having a perfect guarantee that you have chosen the “right” person, you may never have peace. At some point, you have to trust the God who knows what you cannot see.
And this does not mean that every person we desire is automatically God’s choice for us. Nor does it mean we should ignore red flags, compromise convictions or call something “God’s will” simply because we really want it. God can lead us through a relationship and still require us to walk away from it. God can reveal someone’s character before we marry them. God can convict us. God can close a door. And we can also disobey. That is an important part of the conversation. Sometimes people do choose relationships that God was warning them against, not because God abandoned them, but because they chose their desire over His direction. We cannot call every wrong decision “God’s plan” when we ignored His instruction.
But neither should we live terrified that one imperfect decision will permanently place us outside the will of God. There is grace in following Him. There is grace when we realise we were wrong. There is grace when a relationship ends. There is grace when God redirects us. And there is grace in learning how to love wisely.
Maybe we need to stop asking, “What if I choose the wrong person?” and start asking better questions. “Am I listening to God? Am I being honest about what I see? Am I ignoring something because I am afraid to lose this person? Is this relationship producing good fruit? Can I see character, humility, integrity and a willingness to grow? Are we moving in the same direction? Do the people who love me and know me well see what I see? Can I surrender this relationship to God, even if His answer is not the one I want?”
Because that last question might be the most important one. Can you give God permission to say no? If you cannot, then perhaps the issue is not that you don’t know whether the person is right. Perhaps the issue is that you have already decided what you want and are asking God to approve it.
Dating should not be an attempt to manipulate God into giving us the relationship we desire. It should be an opportunity to discover whether the person we desire is someone we can faithfully build a life with under God’s direction. And perhaps we need to remember that God is not trying to trick us. He is not waiting for us to make one wrong move so that He can say, “Well, you chose badly. Now figure it out.” He is a Father. He is present. He is faithful. And He has not left us without guidance.
So yes, take relationships seriously. Pray. Seek counsel. Pay attention to character. Ask difficult questions. Do not ignore red flags. Do not romanticise potential. Do not call chemistry confirmation. Do not use “God told me” to excuse what God has clearly warned you against. But after you have done all of that, trust Him.
Because love was not your idea before it was God’s. The desire to know someone, to be known, to build a home, to give yourself to another person in covenant and to experience companionship is not something God accidentally allowed into your heart. He created us for relationship. And if He is the God who placed the desire there, surely He is also capable of shepherding us as we pursue it.
We don’t need to live paralysed by the possibility of choosing wrong. We need to become people who know the voice of God, love Him enough to obey Him and trust Him enough to follow wherever He leads. Because perhaps the greatest security in choosing a partner isn’t knowing with absolute certainty that “this is the one.” Perhaps it is knowing:
Marriage is one of God’s greatest acts of creation. It is far more than a ceremony, a legal contract, or two people deciding to spend their lives together. It is the beginning of something entirely new. When God joins a man and a woman in marriage, He is not simply adding another relationship to their lives; He is creating a new family. Two people, each carrying their own history, upbringing, traditions, strengths, weaknesses, and experiences, are brought together to build a life that neither could have created alone. This is why marriage is not simply about finding the right person. It is about becoming the right partner and embracing the new identity God is forming through the covenant.
Many people spend months or even years preparing for a wedding, yet very little time preparing for the transition that marriage requires. They carefully choose venues, flowers, attire, and guest lists, but often overlook the inner work that must happen for a marriage to flourish. Marriage requires more than love. It requires a shift in loyalty, identity, responsibility, and perspective. It calls two people to leave what has been familiar in order to build something entirely new together.
This principle is introduced in the very beginning of the bible. Genesis 2:24 says, “Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.” It is fascinating that God established this principle before there were generations of parents to leave. Adam and Eve had no earthly father or mother, yet God was laying down a timeless blueprint that would govern every marriage throughout history. The order is intentional and cannot be ignored: leave, cleave, then become one. God never reverses that order because each step prepares the way for the next.
When Scripture speaks about leaving, it is not suggesting abandonment or dishonor. It is not a call to distance yourself emotionally from your parents or to stop valuing the sacrifices they made to raise you. The command to honor your father and mother remains throughout life. What changes is not the presence of honor but the direction of your primary loyalty. Before marriage, your parents are your primary earthly authority and often your greatest influence. After marriage, your spouse becomes your primary human relationship. Honor continues, but dependence must gradually give way to maturity.
Many people assume leaving is about moving out of their parents’ home, but leaving is far more emotional than geographical. Someone can live in another country and still remain emotionally dependent on their parents, while another person may live next door and maintain healthy boundaries. Leaving is about allowing your marriage to become the place where decisions are made, where loyalty is rooted, and where your deepest commitment lies. It is about understanding that while your parents will always have a place in your heart, they are no longer the people with whom you are building your future.
One of the greatest challenges in this transition is learning to separate your own voice from the voices that shaped you growing up. Every child is influenced by parents, grandparents, relatives, culture, traditions, and community. These voices shape our understanding of love, conflict, money, communication, discipline, faith, and relationships. They become so familiar that we often mistake them for our own convictions. Without realizing it, we may constantly ask ourselves what our mother would think, whether our father would approve, or whether something is right simply because it has always been done that way. While there is wisdom in learning from those who raised us, there is also a point where maturity requires us to seek God’s wisdom personally and learn to discern for ourselves.
Marriage invites us into that maturity. It asks us to stop living solely from inherited beliefs and begin building convictions together with our spouse. Parents may offer valuable counsel, but they are no longer responsible for directing every decision. God designed marriage so that a husband and wife would seek Him together, pray together, make decisions together, and carry the responsibility for those decisions together. Advice can be welcomed without surrendering the authority God has entrusted to the marriage itself.
When leaving does not truly happen, marriages often experience tensions that are difficult to identify. Sometimes a husband continues placing his mother’s opinions above his wife’s feelings. Sometimes a wife still seeks her father’s approval before making decisions with her husband. Sometimes every disagreement becomes a family discussion before the couple has spoken honestly to one another. Financial choices, parenting decisions, holidays, and even private conflicts become heavily influenced by people outside the marriage. Over time, this communicates a painful message to a spouse: “You are not my first priority.” A husband or wife who continually feels second to parents, siblings, or extended family will eventually struggle to feel secure within the relationship.
Leaving, however, is only half of God’s design. After leaving comes cleaving. The Hebrew word translated as “hold fast” or “cleave” carries the beautiful picture of clinging closely, remaining firmly attached, and refusing to let go. It describes an intentional commitment that goes beyond simply sharing a home. Cleaving means choosing one another repeatedly through every season of life. It means becoming emotionally available, protecting one another’s hearts, creating safety, building trust, forgiving generously, and continually pursuing unity. Oneness is not something that automatically appears because vows were exchanged. It grows through thousands of daily decisions to remain connected.
This is why some couples find themselves living like roommates rather than partners. They share responsibilities but not intimacy. They coordinate schedules but rarely share their hearts. They discuss bills, children, and obligations, yet seldom invest in knowing each other deeply. Emotional distance often develops not because love has disappeared but because intentional attachment has been neglected. Cleaving is the ongoing work of moving toward one another even when life becomes busy, stressful, or painful.
Marriage also requires leaving behind familiarity. Every family develops its own culture over time. Some families communicate openly, while others avoid difficult conversations. Some express affection freely, while others struggle to communicate emotions. Some manage money carefully, while others live impulsively. Some have healthy conflict resolution, while others rely on silence, anger, or control. None of us enters marriage as a blank page. We all bring habits, expectations, and assumptions learned in our family of origin. Yet God’s design is not for one spouse to recreate their childhood home within the marriage. Instead, husband and wife are invited to prayerfully decide together what they will carry forward and what they will leave behind. Some traditions deserve to be preserved, while others need to end so healthier patterns can begin.
Learning to leave what is familiar can feel uncomfortable because familiarity often feels safe, even when it is unhealthy. There is comfort in doing what we have always known. Yet growth often requires releasing what is comfortable in order to embrace what is better. Sometimes that means challenging unhealthy patterns that have existed for generations. Sometimes it means learning new ways of communicating, resolving conflict, managing finances, or expressing love. These changes are not acts of rebellion against our families but acts of stewardship toward the family God is helping us build.
Healthy boundaries become essential in this process. Boundaries are often misunderstood as rejection, yet they are actually expressions of love and protection. A healthy marriage learns to make major decisions together before seeking outside opinions. It protects the dignity of the spouse in conversations with relatives. It resolves conflicts privately whenever possible and seeks counsel wisely rather than allowing extended family to become participants in every disagreement. Healthy boundaries communicate that the marriage covenant is sacred and worthy of protection.
The phrase “they shall become one flesh” captures the beauty of everything God intended. Becoming one is not limited to physical intimacy. It involves emotional unity, spiritual partnership, shared purpose, financial stewardship, mutual trust, and growing together in every area of life. It is a lifelong journey of two individuals becoming increasingly united while still retaining the uniqueness God created within each of them. This kind of oneness cannot flourish where loyalty remains divided or where emotional attachment is neglected. It is the natural fruit of leaving well and cleaving faithfully.
Leaving and cleaving are rarely completed in a single day. They unfold over years through conversations, forgiveness, growth, and countless choices that place the marriage first. There will be moments when old habits resurface, when familiar voices become loud again, and when the comfort of old patterns tempts us to retreat. Yet God continually invites husbands and wives back to His original design. He calls them to honor their families without being governed by them, to love their parents without depending on them, and to build a home where their spouse feels fully seen, deeply valued, and unquestionably chosen.
Marriage was never meant to erase the family you came from. Those relationships remain valuable and worthy of honor. But marriage does require that a new family becomes your primary earthly responsibility. When you leave with honor and cleave with intention, you create the environment where genuine oneness can grow. That is God’s wisdom from the very beginning; a wisdom that continues to guide marriages today. It reminds us that love is not only about choosing someone to spend your life with, but also about having the courage to leave what is familiar so that, together, you can build something entirely new.
A year! Three hundred and sixty-five ordinary days.
It doesn’t sound like much until you look back and realize you’re no longer the person who stood at the beginning of it. A year ago, if someone had asked me what my life would look like today, I would have answered with confidence. Not because I knew. But because I thought I did.
Isn’t that how we all live?
We sketch timelines. We create five-year plans. We pray specific prayers and quietly expect God to answer them in the order we’ve arranged them. We call it wisdom. Sometimes, it’s simply the illusion of control.
Last year, I was asking questions I couldn’t answer. I had plans that weren’t unfolding, prayers that seemed suspended in silence, and dreams I couldn’t see taking shape. I thought I knew what needed to happen and when.
I didn’t. Then life happened. Doors closed. People left. Dreams delayed. Prayers seemed to echo back in silence. And somewhere between disappointment and waiting, I began wondering whether God was still writing my story or whether I had somehow been forgotten.
Looking back now, I realize something that could only have been learned in hindsight: God was never absent. He was simply working where I couldn’t see.
And that’s the beautiful thing about God. His wisdom begins where ours ends. We spend so much of life trying to connect the dots while God is busy creating a picture we could never have imagined. We write schedules; He writes stories. We make plans; He orchestrates purpose.
We want God to explain Himself while He’s asking us to trust Him. We want details – He gives direction. We want certainty – He gives His presence. We want the destination – He teaches us to walk.
I’ve learned that heaven is never in a hurry, even when our hearts are. God has never been intimidated by my deadlines. He has never looked at my calendar and thought, “I need to catch up.” Because He isn’t operating within my understanding of time. He exists beyond it!
Somehow, in His perfect wisdom, He knows exactly when to withhold, when to prepare, when to prune, and when to finally place something beautiful into our hands. Not because He’s trying to test our patience. But because He loves us too much to give us something before we’ve become the person who can carry it well. Sometimes He allows us to sit in seasons that feel empty, not because He has forgotten us, but because He is preparing us for something we could never prepare ourselves for.
Looking back, I realize something profound: God knows exactly how to wipe tears. Not by pretending they never existed. Not by rushing our healing. But by redeeming the very places that once held our deepest pain. He doesn’t waste heartbreak. He doesn’t discard seasons of waiting.
He gathers every unanswered prayer, every lonely night, every disappointment, and somehow weaves them into a story that makes you whisper,
“Now I understand why You asked me to wait.”
Maybe not every question receives an answer. But somehow, His faithfulness answers enough. I’ve also learned that God has a way of building in front of the same audience that watched you break. Not to prove a point. Not to embarrass anyone. Not because He’s interested in proving your worth. But because He’s interested in revealing His glory. The rebuilding isn’t about revenge.
It’s about redemption. The same God who allowed the breaking is the One who lovingly rebuilds. And when He restores, He doesn’t simply replace what was lost, He creates something deeper, stronger, wiser, and far more beautiful than what you imagined. He never wastes what He permits.
One year can teach you that So Much Can Happen in One Year
One year can introduce people you never expected to meet.
One year can heal wounds you thought would stay open forever.
One year can soften places in your heart that bitterness almost claimed.
One year can completely change the way you see God.
If this past year has taught me anything, it’s this: We spend so much energy asking God to reveal the entire blueprint, while He simply asks us to trust the Architect. Our plans are limited by what we know. His plans are shaped by what He knows. And there is an immeasurable difference between the two.
The older I grow, the less interested I become in asking God to fit inside my plans. Instead, I find myself praying,
“Lord, give me the grace to fit inside Yours.”
Because His wisdom truly begins where mine ends. His perspective reaches generations while mine barely reaches tomorrow. While we’re calculating timelines, He is aligning purpose.
While we’re grieving closed doors, He is preparing doors we don’t even know exist.
While we’re wondering whether He’s listening, He’s already answering in ways we’ll only understand later. His “not yet” has protected me more times than I’ll probably ever know.
So today, I’m simply grateful. Not because life has been perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered. But because I’ve seen enough of God’s character to trust Him with the prayers that remain.
I think one of the greatest lessons in life is this: Don’t judge God’s work by the chapter you’re currently reading.
Sometimes everything changes before you even realize a new chapter has begun. If you’re in a season where nothing seems to be happening, don’t rush it. Don’t mistake silence for absence. Seeds spend a long time hidden before anyone calls them a harvest. Trust the hidden work. Trust the waiting. Trust the God who has never once confused delay with denial.
One day, you’ll look back and realize that while you were counting the days, God was writing a story that could only have been written by Him.
There’s something I’ve noticed about God, and if I’m being honest, it’s not always the easiest thing to accept. When He wants to truly use a man, He doesn’t just grow him quietly behind the scenes. He allows him to be broken and sometimes, that breaking happens in front of people. Not in hiding, not in secret, but right there where it can be seen. The kind of breaking that humbles you, that strips you, that makes you question everything you thought you had together. And suddenly, you’re not the strong one anymore. You’re the one people are watching, trying to figure out, maybe even talking about.
The truth is, we all love the idea of purpose. We love saying, “God use me.” But we don’t always understand what that really comes with. Because sometimes, being used by God means being undone first. It means losing the version of yourself you were so confident in. It means your plans not working out, your image being shaken, your control slipping through your fingers. And it’s uncomfortable, especially when it feels like it’s happening in real time and people can see it. But God is not careless with His process. If He allows people to witness your breaking, it’s because He also intends for them to witness your becoming.
That’s the part that shifts everything. God doesn’t waste an audience. The same people who saw you in your lowest moments will one day look at you and not even recognize the strength, the grace, the depth you now carry. Not because you fixed yourself, but because God rebuilt you. And when He builds, He doesn’t patch things up ~ He transforms. “Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time” 1 Peter 5:6.
And then there’s restoration. Scripture says, “And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten…” Joel 2:25). Not just days. Not just moments. Years. Time you thought was wasted. Seasons you thought were gone forever. And we often hear that and immediately think about material things: money, opportunities, lost possessions. But God’s restoration is far deeper than that. He doesn’t just restore what you can count, He restores what you feel, what you carry, what you once believed in. He restores dreams you quietly buried. He restores confidence you lost along the way. He restores identity, direction, clarity… the parts of you that life tried to erode over time.
Look at Job. A man who didn’t suffer in silence, but in full view. A man who lost everything that could be measured: his wealth, his health, his status and even that which could not be replaced easily, his children. His pain was not hidden, and neither was the questioning around it. People observed, debated, and tried to make sense of what he was going through. But in the end, God restored him in a way that went beyond human logic. “So the Lord blessed the latter end of Job more than his beginning” Job 42:12). Job’s story isn’t just about replacement it’s about depth. It’s about a kind of restoration that heals the soul, not just the situation. A kind that allows a man to live again, to build again, to hope again after devastation that should have ended him.
And that’s the kind of God we serve. One who doesn’t just patch wounds but truly heals them. One who can take a life that has been shattered and still make it whole in a way that carries peace, joy, and stability. Restoration with God is not always about giving you back exactly what you lost in the same form, it’s about giving you something that can hold the weight of who you are becoming.
But here’s where many of us get stuck. We become so attached to what we had that we fail to recognize what God is doing now. We keep looking back at former days, comparing, reminiscing, measuring everything against the past. And in doing that, we miss the present move of God. It’s not that restoration isn’t happening, it’s that our eyes are fixed on a version of life God has already moved beyond. There’s a reason He says, “Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing…” Isaiah 43:18–19. Not because the former things didn’t matter, but because they are not the standard for what He is doing next.
God is intentional when He says He is doing a new thing. New means it won’t look like what you’re used to. It won’t always feel familiar. It may not come in the packaging you expected. But it will carry purpose. It will carry alignment. It will carry fulfillment in ways that the past couldn’t sustain. “If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new” 2 Corinthians 5:17.
There’s a kind of faith required in that place the faith to let go without having full clarity of what’s ahead. The faith to trust that God is not trying to take from you, but to elevate you beyond what you once knew. The faith to believe that even the dreams you thought died are not beyond His reach. Because God doesn’t just restore situations, He restores vision. He breathes life back into ideas, callings, and desires you once carried but had to set aside due to circumstances.
“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose” Romans 8:28. Even the breaking. Even the public moments. Even the parts you wish never happened.
So when God breaks a man, it is not the end of him. It is the beginning of a process that leads to something stronger, something deeper, something more rooted in truth than appearance. And when He restores, He doesn’t just bring things back. He rebuilds lives in a way that carries evidence of His hand. “And after you have suffered a little while, [He] will Himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast” 1 Peter 5:10.
In the end, what people witnessed in your breaking becomes part of the testimony they cannot ignore in your rebuilding. And what once looked like loss becomes the very ground where God proves His faithfulness. Because with Him, nothing is truly wasted, and no season is without purpose.
And maybe, just maybe, the version of you that emerges after the breaking will not only carry restoration but will also carry a quiet confidence that says:
At the end of it all, when life finally slows down enough for reflection, I want it to be said, clearly and without explanation, that I waited. Not that I rushed. Not that I forced doors open. Not that I settled because time was moving and pressure was loud. But that I waited. I waited for the money. I waited for the marriage. I waited for the car. I waited for the house. I waited for the peace. I waited faithfully. Waiting is not passive. It is not empty. It is not lazy. Waiting is loud on the inside. It is full of questions, calculations, prayers, tears, hope, disappointment, courage, and restraint. Waiting is choosing obedience when shortcuts are available. Waiting is trusting God when logic is impatient and fear is convincing.
There are days I am clapping while I wait. I am genuinely celebrating others; weddings, keys handed over, cars purchased, milestones announced. I show up. I smile. I applaud. Even when my heart quietly asks, “God, when will it be my turn?” I clap anyway. I refuse to let jealousy poison my spirit or comparison rob me of gratitude. I learn how to celebrate without resentment and how to bless without bitterness. And then there are days I am wailing and waiting. Days when the weight of responsibility feels heavier than faith. Days when prayers come out raw and unpolished. Days when I am tired of being strong, tired of believing without evidence, tired of trusting timing I don’t understand. I cry and I wait. I let the tears fall because faith doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay, it means staying even when it isn’t. There are moments I am crawling. Barely moving. Barely hopeful. Dragging myself forward with nothing but stubborn belief and whispered prayers. Crawling through financial pressure. Crawling through unanswered prayers. Crawling through loneliness. Crawling through disappointment. Crawling through seasons where effort doesn’t seem to equal reward.
And even there; low, exhausted, stretched thin ~ I am still waiting.
I ask God real questions. I ask Him when it will be my turn. I ask Him if He sees me. If He remembers me. If He knows how hard I’m trying. Sometimes I even ask Him if He forgot about me. And still ~ I wait.
I wait for money; not just to spend, but to steward. Not for excess, but for stability. For freedom. For provision that doesn’t come with panic. I wait to earn honestly, grow wisely, and build patiently. I refuse shortcuts that cost me my peace. I refuse wealth that demands compromise. I wait for provision that aligns with purpose.
I wait for marriage, not as a rescue, not as validation, not as proof that I am chosen, but as partnership. I refuse relationships where someone thinks they’re doing me a favor by choosing me. I wait for love that meets me with respect, safety, and intention. I wait for someone who doesn’t compete with my growth but celebrates it. I wait for something built, not borrowed.
I wait for the car, not just movement, but momentum. For progress that feels earned. For independence that doesn’t choke me with debt. I wait for the version that comes without anxiety attached. I wait because rushing would cost me more than patience ever will.
I wait for the house, not just walls, but rest. A place that feels like peace, not pressure. A space that holds laughter, healing, prayer, and growth. I refuse to force milestones just to prove I am not behind. I wait for the house that comes with stability, not stress.
But most of all, I wait for peace. The kind of peace money can’t buy. The kind marriage doesn’t guarantee. The kind success doesn’t automatically bring. The peace that settles your spirit even when life is still unfolding. The peace that tells you you’re not late, you’re aligned. The peace that allows you to sleep at night knowing you didn’t betray your values to arrive early.
Waiting teaches me restraint in a world addicted to shortcuts. It teaches me that not every opportunity is divine and not every open door is God. Waiting teaches me that preparation matters, that timing matters, that character matters.
I wait while people underestimate me. While some write me off quietly. While others accept me but don’t expect much from me. While a few assume whatever comes my way is luck or pity instead of promise. I don’t argue. I don’t explain. I don’t rush to prove. I wait.
Because waiting is not absence, it is alignment. It is God shaping me into someone who can hold what I’m asking for without losing herself. Someone who won’t fumble the blessing because she skipped the process. And when the day comes, when the money is steady, when the marriage is real, when the car is mine, when the house feels like home, when peace finally settles deeply, I don’t want the story to be about luck.
I want it to be said that I waited. That I waited faithfully. That I waited when it hurt. That I waited when it felt unfair. That I waited when giving up would have been easier. That I clapped and waited. That I wailed and waited. That I cried and waited. That I crawled and still waited. That I trusted God when my hands were empty and my heart was tired. And when He comes through because He will, I will know it wasn’t coincidence. It was obedience. It was patience. It was faith in motion.
There is a quiet truth life has been teaching me in layers, seasons, and sometimes through loss: once the process is compromised, the promise gets undervalued. It sounds simple, almost obvious, but living it is a different story. This realization didn’t come to me in theory, it came through lived experiences, missteps, impatience, and moments where I watched things I deeply desired slip away.
For a long time, I believed that wanting something badly was enough. That passion, intention, and prayer could substitute discipline, patience, and consistency. I thought if my heart was in the right place, the journey would somehow arrange itself. But life has a way of correcting what enthusiasm alone cannot sustain. There were seasons when I was more in love with the outcome than with who I needed to become to sustain it. I admired the finish line, the title, the stability, the validation, the sense of arrival, without respecting the daily, often boring work that leads there. I wanted results that required roots I had not yet grown. So I rushed. I skipped steps. I leaned on shortcuts dressed as “opportunities.” I convinced myself that speed meant favor. But when the results came too early or without depth, they felt fragile. They felt undeserved. They felt easy to lose. Some seasons are meant to stretch us quietly. To build emotional muscle. To teach restraint, wisdom, and discernment. Yet I’ve had moments where I resisted those slow seasons. I pushed myself into spaces I admired without asking whether I was fully formed for them. When pressure came, I cracked. When responsibility increased, I shrank. Not because I was incapable but because I had bypassed preparation. The process I tried to escape was the very thing meant to stabilize me.
Sometime this year, during one of my hardest moments, I called a very close friend and pastor because I felt overwhelmed and tired of carrying pain that didn’t seem to end. As we spoke, he said something that stayed with me: “Sharon, unless you pass this exam and graduate this class, God will not promote you.” I remember telling him how hard it felt, how confusing it was to understand God in that moment. I cried deeply not because I didn’t believe, but because I was exhausted. I wanted the pain to end. I wanted to move on without another lesson attached to it.
Looking back now, I understand what he meant. Some seasons are not meant to be escaped; they are meant to be completed. What feels like delay is often divine insistence on depth. What feels like repetition is refinement. And what feels like punishment is often preparation in disguise. Not all shortcuts are visible. Some live inside us.
There were times I avoided doing the deeper emotional work; healing, self-honesty, accountability, boundaries. I told myself I had “moved on” when I had only buried things. I rushed forgiveness without understanding. I embraced new beginnings without closing old chapters properly. And later, the same patterns returned, just wearing different faces. The promise of peace, clarity, or wholeness felt postponed, not because it wasn’t meant for me, but because I hadn’t yet allowed the process to refine me enough to hold it. I’ve always known I carry potential, skills, vision, capacity. But potential is only raw material. Without discipline, structure, and consistency, it remains unused or misused. There were opportunities that came before I had fully cultivated my character or systems. And when they did, I struggled to maintain them. It wasn’t punishment. It was exposure; exposure of areas still under construction. I’ve learned that gifts can open doors, but only preparation keeps them open. One of the hardest things to sit with is this: sometimes what feels like loss is actually protection. Sometimes what feels like delay is correction. And sometimes what feels like “God taking something away” is really life revealing that the foundation wasn’t strong enough yet.
A promise mishandled hurts more than a promise delayed.
Because when it slips away, it carries disappointment, self-doubt, and grief. But it also carries a lesson, one that gently whispers: you’re still becoming. With time, reflection, and grace, I’ve begun to see the process differently. Not as punishment. Not as resistance. But as preparation. The process teaches patience where impatience once ruled. It teaches discipline where excitement once led. It teaches identity before achievement. It teaches depth before display. Now, I’m learning to slow down without guilt. To sit with the work. To grow roots before expecting fruit. To let my character catch up with my calling. Today, I move with more intention. I no longer chase outcomes just to say I’ve arrived. I ask better questions: Am I ready to sustain this? Have I honored the becoming? Am I willing to grow quietly before being seen?
I am learning that the process doesn’t delay the promise, it protects it. And when the time is right, what comes will not feel fragile or borrowed. It will feel earned, stewarded, and deeply aligned.
And so I close this chapter with a steadier heart, choosing to honour the long road instead of rushing to the finish line, trusting that every slow, quiet, disciplined step is shaping me into the woman who can finally hold her promise without fear of losing it again.
I don’t know your name yet. I don’t know the curve of your smile or the exact timbre of your voice when you whisper goodnight. I don’t know how you weep when life breaks you or how your laugh sounds when it bursts out unrestrained. But I believe, truly, deeply, that when you come, my soul will know.
Not because it’ll feel like a fairytale, but because it will feel like home. Like something in me finally exhaling. Like peace after a storm that tried to swallow me whole. You’ll walk in, and something ancient in me will recognize you, not just as a man, but as a promise fulfilled.
You see, I’ve prayed for you. Not the light kind of prayer that brushes past heaven, but the kind that scraped through my chest and poured out as tears. I’ve fasted. I’ve waited in the quiet. I’ve whispered your name into the dark even when I didn’t know it yet. I’ve told God, “Let it be him, the one who sees me as I am, and stays anyway.” I’ve asked for you when I had nothing left to offer but a trembling hope on shaky legs.
I have known ache, love. Deep, soul-wounding ache. Not just from absence, but from almosts. From doors that opened halfway and never fully let me in. From people who said the right things but couldn’t carry the weight of my heart. From moments where I gave, and hoped, and waited, only to be told I was too much. Too tender. Too intense. Too emotional. Too present.
But I know now: I was never too much. I was just too much for someone who wasn’t you.
Still, I waited. Not perfectly, but faithfully. I’ve sat in rooms full of people and still felt the hollow echo of loneliness. I’ve smiled and poured into others while silently asking God, “When will it be my turn?” There were days I doubted you existed. Nights I nearly stopped believing. I wrestled with God like Jacob, not just for a blessing, but for a promise. Like Paul, I’ve carried my own thorn: longing. A holy ache that reminded me I was made for love that hadn’t yet arrived.
There were times the wait almost broke me. Moments I whispered, “Lord, did You forget?” Nights I stared at the ceiling, wondering if someone could carry the fullness of my love without growing weary of it. Days I doubted if I was enough, too loud in my laughter, too deep in my feelings, too much in my dreams.
But God whispered, “You are not too much. You are just enough for the one I’ve designed for you.”
So I’ve been learning to dance in the hallway while the door to our forever remained closed. Learning to love my own company so I never place the burden of fulfillment on you. Learning that I am already whole, not because you complete me, but because Christ already did.
But when you come, it will still be more. Not a completion – but a multiplication. Not a rescue – but a revelation. Not a fairytale – but a covenant.
And I promise, by God’s grace, I won’t come to you as a damsel in distress, but as a woman walking in destiny. I will come carrying vision. Wrapped in prayer. Eyes full of wonder and arms ready to build with you. I’ll be your helper, your encourager, your safe space, your biggest cheerleader, your softest place to land.
Because the Word of God says, “He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord”. When you find me, you’ll find more than a woman, you’ll find a good thing. A blessing. A partner in purpose. A testament that God still honors those who wait.
When I say yes to you, it will not be just for the easy days. I will say yes to growth, to the midnight talks, the tough decisions, and the sacred work of choosing us every day. I’ll say yes to being your peace when the world is loud, your prayer when the load is heavy, your hand to hold when words run dry.
I will cover you in prayer. I will speak life over you, even when life feels like drought. I will fast when you are weary and lift up your name when your knees feel too tired to kneel. Because this is kingdom love. And I am not here for just a wedding; I’m here for purpose.
Ecclesiastes 4:9–10 “Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his companion…”
That’s what I’m coming to do. Not just love you, but lift you. Not just build a home with you, but build the Kingdom with you.
When you forget who you are, I’ll remind you. When you doubt your calling, I’ll echo heaven’s voice: You were chosen before the foundations of the earth. When fear tries to paralyze you, I’ll remind you that perfect love casts out fear, and we do not walk by sight, we walk by faith.
Our love won’t be perfect, but it will be holy. There will be days we stumble, but grace will be our rhythm. There will be nights we disagree, but forgiveness will be our anchor. Because God is not just writing a love story for us: He’s writing a legacy.
When I think of you, it’s not with desperation, but with sacred hope. I pray for the little boy you once were and the man you are becoming. I bless the roads you’ve walked and the mountains we will climb together. I ask God to keep you hidden in Him until it’s time, for both of us.
I believe the wait will be worth it.
Until the day I hear your voice call me “mine,” I will keep preparing a heart that loves deeply, forgives easily, and worships endlessly. I will keep becoming. I will keep building a life you can walk into and call home.
Because when you come, it won’t just be the end of a chapter, it will be the beginning of the greatest assignment we’ve ever known. You and I, hand in hand, not chasing a perfect picture, but carrying out a divine purpose.
So, until you come;
I’ll remain… Still healing. Still hopeful. Still chosen. Still His. Still praying. Still becoming. And always, always waiting in promise.
Church hurt is real, and it leaves marks that few can see but many carry silently. It’s not dramatic or attention-seeking to acknowledge it. It’s honest. It’s brave. Because for many, the pain didn’t come from the world, it came from inside the very place they thought was safe. Maybe it was judgment when you needed understanding. Gossip when you asked for prayer. Or rejection when you finally built the courage to show up with your broken pieces, hoping someone would help you gather them back together.
That kind of pain cuts deep. It shakes the foundation. It can leave you wondering, If this is God’s people, what does that say about God?
And yet, Hebrews 10:25 encourages us: “Let us not give up the habit of meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”
This isn’t a push to return to harmful places or to ignore trauma. It’s not an order to “just get over it” and sit back in the same pew. No. This is a tender, Spirit-breathed reminder that we were made for connection; for community that heals, not harms. For gatherings that build up, not tear down. It’s less about buildings and more about belonging.
Because the truth is: we are the Church. Not the programs, not the polished sermons, not the praise team. Us. The living, breathing body of Christ. Where you are, the Church is.
To the one who’s been hurt in church settings:
You are not crazy.
You are not overly sensitive.
You are not rebellious for walking away.
You are not weak for needing time to heal.
You are seen. You are still chosen. You are still called.
Paul reminds us in Ephesians 2:8-9: “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God not by works, so that no one can boast.”
That means none of us earned our spot in God’s family. Not by perfect behavior. Not by ministry involvement. Not by never missing a Sunday. We are here only because of grace. Every single one of us is a sinner saved by mercy. So how dare we boast? How dare we forget?
We must be so careful, careful not to cast people aside because their sin looks different from ours. Careful not to become gatekeepers of grace, forgetting that our own story is soaked in it. Sometimes, the loudest voices in church buildings shout hardest against sins they don’t understand, while whispering over the ones they themselves commit. But God sees through all of it.
Sin is sin. Period. And mercy is mercy. Thank God for that.
Jesus didn’t come for the already-clean. He came for the messy, the wounded, the lost, the addicted, the confused, the doubting, the angry, the tired. So if someone fell in public and we label them “too far gone,” we have forgotten how we ourselves were lifted up in private.
You don’t have to hide your pain to belong. You don’t have to be perfect to be loved. You don’t have to perform to be accepted.
Your identity in Christ is not “the wounded one.” You are:
A child of God (John 1:12)
A royal priesthood (1 Peter 2:9)
The righteousness of God in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:21)
Forgiven, redeemed, and sealed by the Spirit (Ephesians 1:7,13)
No rejection can undo that. No church board. No leader’s words. No silence from a pulpit. No exclusion from a ministry team. None of it defines you. Jesus does.
And Jesus is still gentle. Still kind. Still healing the brokenhearted. Still welcoming the ones the crowd pushed away. Still whispering, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)
You are not too far gone. You are not disqualified. You are not second-class in the Kingdom.
Healing takes time. And it’s okay to go slow. It’s okay to unlearn. It’s okay to be cautious. But don’t let the failure of people distort the face of Jesus. Let Him reintroduce Himself to you outside of all the noise. He’s not waiting for you to “snap out of it.” He’s walking with you in it.
You still belong. You are still part of the Church Jesus is building. And nothing anyone did can take that away.
Your story matters. Your healing matters. And your voice especially now, is needed. The Church becomes healthier when we listen to the ones who’ve been bruised and believe them. We grow when we stop pretending and start loving like Christ.
So take your time, but don’t lose hope. Jesus is nothing like those who misrepresented Him.
Beautiful Scars 