God Where are you?
Silenced screamed louder than any prayer I could pray.
God, where are You?
Yeah, that question.
The one Jesus asked
as breath slipped from His lungs,
as sky turned black
and all of heaven held its breath.
I’ve asked it too—
in hospital rooms,
at funerals,
on bathroom floors,
in the dead of night
when hope felt like a joke
and silence screamed louder than any prayer I could pray.
Silent Saturday.
That in-between place.
Not the horror of Friday,
not the miracle of Sunday—
just the space
where nothing makes sense
and everything hurts.
And I sit in it.
Heavy.
Worn out.
Wondering if You’re even listening.
But maybe this is holy ground too—
this waiting,
this weeping,
this whisper of “why?”
Maybe it’s okay
to not have answers,
to let my heart break wide open,
to grieve what was
and what never will be.
To let silence be the song I sing
until You speak.
Because You will speak… right?
But until then,
I’ll be here—
in the dark,
in the quiet,
not running,
not faking,
just being.
With You.
If You’re still here.
And somehow,
I think You are.