Help Me Pass This Test

I woke up today sad—carrying the weight of this season in my chest like something unfinished, something heavy. I know this is a test God has placed before me, a new assignment that requires more from my heart than my strength has wanted to give. And if I’m honest, I haven’t responded well.

I want to be the obedient daughter.

The one who considers it all joy.

The one who trusts without flinching.

But instead, I’ve been the angry daughter—questioning His love.

What have I done to be treated so unkindly?

Why are You stripping me of the things that matter to me?

Why does it feel like You’ve abandoned me?

Why do those who have been unkind seem exalted while I’m left here?

God, where are You?

Why does this wilderness feel endless?

I’m struggling with envy.

I’m struggling with grief.

I’m struggling with fear.

There are days I want to hide even more—to retreat into the quiet, into the dark closet of my heart—and ask God to meet me there. To remind me that I am not forgotten. That I am favored. That He sees me. That He hasn’t left me here to die.

There is a little girl inside of me who is weeping.

She feels punished.

She believes she’s done something to make her Father in heaven angry.

She just wants the ache to be still—because the sadness feels like too much.

The book I’m reading is asking me to do something that feels both tender and terrifying: to make a friend of this grief. To be curious about this exile in my heart. To ask it questions—and then to invite Jesus into the conversation.

So I listened.

My grief says it’s tired of being strong.

It’s tired of carrying the weight of always doing the right thing.

It wants to be loved.

It wants to be seen.

It wants to feel appreciated.

It wants to breathe—feel the sunshine—without worrying it will be taken away.

It’s tired of feeling like obedience is a punishment.

Like responsibility is a burden.

Like gifting comes with loss.

It wants what others seem to have: recognition and comfort.

And there it is—the lie.

Comfort is what is killing me.

If I want to truly thrive, I must shed my comfort and step into the unknown—where Jesus is. Where His transforming power waits. He is inviting me into the furnace, not to harm me, but to break the chains I’ve been carrying quietly for years.

He wants to be glorified in my pain.

He wants to show me His goodness in my weakness.

He wants a life that is truly His—not just in words, but in surrender.

My tears are my prayers right now. I can’t see clearly, and I know it. I’m afraid this grief will consume me—afraid it will cost me what I want most: to dwell in His house and hear Him say that He is pleased with me.

So this is my prayer today:

God, help me trust You.

Help my heart stay tender toward You.

Meet me in this grief.

Break the chains I can’t see.

And help me pass this test—not by being strong, but by being Yours.