On my darkest days, I am an island. Floating somewhere between despair and the deadening sky, where the clouds refuse to move, and even the birds forget to sing. The air is thick with silence, and the sea beneath me churns in all the wrong directions, pulling at my ankles, pulling me under. Every attempt to breathe becomes a gasping for something more than air—something bigger, something holy.
I speak to the wind, to the void, to the darkened corners of my soul, but they return no answer. Only echoes, only the hollow sound of my voice as it bounces back, reminding me of the emptiness that sits heavy in my chest. I reach out, arms stretched wide, searching for a hand to hold, but the world is too far away, lost somewhere on another shore.
And yet, in this drifting, this endless wandering, I find myself not alone. There is a hand—one I cannot see but feel. It cradles me in the way the ocean cradles the moon, drawing me in, whispering of something eternal, something sacred. It holds me when I cannot hold myself. It is not the world’s touch, but His. The only hand that doesn’t turn away.
God is here, in the spaces where no one else can enter. He is here in the silence, in the fear, in the trembling of my tired bones. He is the calm at the heart of the storm, the rock that steadies the ship. When I close my eyes, it is not darkness I see but light—a light that burns through the fog, through the chaos. His light, His voice, like a song I once knew but forgot somewhere along the way.
I am adrift, yes. But I am not lost.
In His hands, I am home.
B 🤍
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