NOT FORSAKEN

I am alone, but not abandoned.
The silence around me is not empty—it is spacious.
It holds echoes of prayers whispered, tears shed,
and the quiet strength that grows when no one is watching.

Years may pass without a knock at the door,
without a hand to hold or a voice to call my name.
But still, I rise.
Still, I breathe.
Still, I listen for the One who does not forget.

God is not always loud.
Sometimes He is the stillness that steadies me,
the breath that returns when grief has stolen mine.
He is the flicker of warmth in a cold room,
the scripture that finds me when I’ve stopped searching.

I do not measure His presence by company kept,
but by the endurance of my soul.
By the way I keep showing up to life,
even when no one else does.

The world may forget my name,
but heaven does not.
The angels do not overlook the one who walks alone.
The Spirit does not bypass the quiet room.

I am not forsaken.
I am being formed.
Not in the rush of crowds,
but in the long obedience of solitude.

Here, in the hush, I find Him.
Not always with answers,
but always with presence.
Not always with rescue,
but always with refuge.

So I remain—
not untouched by longing,
but unconsumed by it.

I walk this path not because it is easy,
but because it is mine.
And in the walking, I find the footprints of the One
who walked alone before me.

He knows the ache.
He knows the silence.
He knows the years.

And still, He stays.

Not as a visitor,
but as a companion.
Not as a rescuer on demand,
but as a presence that never leaves.

So I will keep lighting candles in the quiet,
keep writing truth into the margins,
keep listening for the whisper that says:

“You are not forgotten.
You are not forsaken.
You are not alone.”

Amen.