There are seasons where God feels close enough to touch…and seasons where He feels far away.
Yet Jeremiah 31 reminds us of something beautiful: “The LORD appeared to him from far away.”
Even from a distance, God still spoke love. Even through wilderness and grief, His faithfulness remained.
Sometimes we expect God’s presence to look like immediate rescue, instant healing, or emotional certainty. But there are moments when He meets us from what feels like “far away”—not because He has abandoned us, but because He is teaching us that His love is deeper than our current feelings.
If you are walking through sorrow, disappointment, confusion, or exhaustion today, remember this: God’s silence is not the absence of His faithfulness.
The same passage says: “I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you.”
Everlasting means His love did not begin with your strongest season, and it will not end in your weakest one.
And then comes the promise: “Again I will build you.”
God rebuilds people.
He restores what grief tried to hollow out.
He brings worship out of wilderness.
He teaches trembling hearts to dance again.
Even in chaos, we can posture ourselves in worship because we trust that God’s plans are still unfolding. Worship is not denial of pain—it is confidence that despair does not get the final word.
If God is rebuilding you right now, don’t despise the process. The One who loves you eternally is still being faithful to you presently.
Let’s pray…
Father, in seasons where You feel far away, help me remember that Your love has never left me. When grief, disappointment, or exhaustion cloud my vision, remind me that Your faithfulness is still holding me together. Teach me to trust You not only in moments of clarity, but also in the wilderness where I cannot yet see what You are rebuilding. Heal the places in me that have grown weary, restore what despair has tried to steal, and posture my heart in worship even before the breakthrough comes. Thank You that Your love is everlasting, Your plans are still good, and You are not finished with my story. Build me again, Lord, and let my life become a testimony of Your restoring grace. Amen.
There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t announce itself while you’re in it.
It’s not loud. It doesn’t always look like breaking down in a hallway or sitting in the dark parking lot outside the hospital trying to gather yourself before you go back in. Sometimes it just looks like functioning. Clocking in. Clocking out. Making calls. Answering texts. Sitting beside the hospital bed like you’re holding the whole world together with duct tape and determination.
You do what you have to do.
You become provider, advocate, scheduler, translator of medical jargon, emotional anchor, and sometimes the only stable point in a room full of uncertainty. You learn to live in two worlds at once—one foot in hospital rooms that smell like sanitizer and fear, the other in a life that keeps demanding normalcy from you like nothing has changed.
And somehow, everything has changed.
For a lot of dads, the hardest part isn’t just surviving the NICU or a long hospital season. It’s what comes after.
Because when the alarms stop and the routine of scans, rounds, and consultations fades, there’s this quiet that shows up. And in that quiet, everything you didn’t have space to feel starts asking for attention.
That’s where it gets complicated.
During the crisis, you run on adrenaline and necessity. There’s no room to fall apart, because someone has to keep the wheels turning. But once the urgency lifts, the body finally catches up with what the mind had to postpone.
And sometimes that looks like depression that didn’t have time to introduce itself earlier.
It’s disorienting, because people around you assume the hardest part is over. They’re grateful—and you are too—but they don’t always see that “over” doesn’t mean “undone.” You’re still carrying the weight of decisions, sleepless nights, financial strain, and the quiet fear that lived under every update from a doctor.
“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” — Psalm 55:2
And if you’re honest, you might not even have the language for what you’re feeling yet. Just heaviness. Irritability. Numbness. A sense that you should be “back to normal” by now, but normal doesn’t quite exist anymore in the same way.
What makes it harder is how isolating it can be.
Not everyone is equipped to hold space for what you’re processing. Some people move on quickly, not out of indifference, but because life keeps moving and they don’t know what to say anymore. Even family, as well-meaning as they are, might be dealing with their own version of grief or fear. So, the support you need doesn’t always show up in the way you need it to show up.
And you can find yourself in this strange place of being surrounded, yet still alone with it.
Then there’s the layer no one talks about enough: your kids still needing care beyond survival. Appointments. Therapies. Counseling. Emotional regulation that requires patience you’re not sure you have left. And you’re trying to be the steady presence for them while quietly wondering who is steady for you.
That tension can feel impossible—like you’re supposed to be both strong and untouched by what you’ve just walked through.
But you’re not untouched. You’re just still standing. And there’s a difference.
If you’re in that in-between space—the season after the season—where everything is quieter but somehow heavier, I want to say this clearly:
What you’re feeling is not a failure of faith, strength, or character. It’s often the delayed impact of prolonged stress and trauma finally finding space to surface.
You were in survival mode. Now you’re in recovery mode, even if it doesn’t feel like recovery yet.
“Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28
And recovery is not linear.
Some days you’ll feel fine. Other days you’ll feel like you’re back in it emotionally, even when nothing is actively wrong. That doesn’t mean you’re going backward. It means your mind and body are processing what they couldn’t process in real time.
You don’t have to rush that.
You also don’t have to do it alone, even if it feels like the support around you is limited. Sometimes the right support isn’t a crowd, it’s one person who can sit with you without trying to fix it.
Sometimes it’s a counselor who understands trauma and transition. Sometimes it’s simply learning to name what’s happening inside you, so it doesn’t stay undefined and heavy.
“Bear one another’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ.” — Galatians 6:2
And if you’re struggling to be present the way you want to be, especially for your kids, it doesn’t disqualify you. Conversely, it reflects the reality that you’ve been carrying more than one person is designed to carry for a long time.
Your presence matters more than your perfection.
Even now. Even in the exhaustion. Even in the days when you feel like you’re just getting through.
If no one has told you lately in plain terms: what you carried through that season was significant. What you’re carrying now still matters. And what you need in this season matters just as much as what everyone else needs from you.
There’s no shame in needing time to come back to yourself.
And maybe that starts with letting God meet you honestly instead of trying to meet Him polished.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
You’re not behind. You’re not broken.
You’re in the aftermath of something heavy—and learning how to breathe again in a different kind of normal.
There is a quiet but intense pain that comes not from judgment, but from neglect. You confess, open up, step into the light…and for reasons unknown, the other side withdraws.
What does Scripture say about this scenario?
First, the Bible consistently honors confession. “Confess your sins [offenses, insecurities] to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed” (James 5:16). Confession is not weakness; it is courageous obedience, an expression of virtue rooted in trust both in God and in the community of believers.
But what happens when that trust is not reciprocated?
While the Bible calls believers to bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2), it also prepares us for a sobering reality – not everyone will respond with grace or remain engaged in it. Even within communities of faith, people can fail to reflect Christ’s compassion. Some withdraw out of discomfort. Others stay distant, bypassing love in the name of self-preservation, passive-aggressive retaliation, or simply making a point.
Yet, Scripture gently redirects our expectations: “It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in man” (Psalm 118:8). This is not a call to isolation – but recalibration. While human relationships are imperfect vessels, God alone is absolute and constant.
Consider this: Your confession was never ultimately for them but before God. As hurtful as silence can be, a widening of detachment does not invalidate your obedience, minimize your need for wisdom and encouragement, or erase your healing.
In fact, Jesus Himself experienced relational abandonment in moments of deepest vulnerability. In Gethsemane, His closest friends slept. At the cross, many fled. Some even mocked. Yet, He remained anchored in the Father’s will, not human consistency.
So, what do you do with the ache?
You grieve it honestly. You resist the urge to harden your heart. And you keep pursuing authentic community – because while some may fail you, others will reflect the grace you hoped for.
Put another way…
Being neglected after confession does not mean you chose the wrong path; it just means you chose the narrow one.
My charge to you, my friends, is simple: Keep going, pray for the ghosting orbiters who have strayed, and stay true to God’s path knowing you’re never alone from where it matters most.
Two months into grief counseling, I’ve been thinking about certain deterrents, specifically those that rob our security in Christ.
Why is it so many take momentary solace in the Lord, yet overall, feel less assured within His sovereignty? Why are some content in their acceptance of Jesus, but not in their walk with Him?
Looking in the mirror, I’ve been compelled to take inventory, in part, to assist the new support I have on the ground. The fact I’m even in this position is a huge answer to prayer.
Still, the reality and discovery alike are uncomfortable; hence, why I’m on the hunt for words, wisdom, and answers. What makes one want the safety of God’s protection without the anchoring? What keeps a man sealed but at times, unhinged? How is it one can mentally grasp his identity in Christ but not rest in his position in Christ?
These inquiries are but a few I hope to address in this new ‘Project Management’ series.
Before we continue, let me define “project management” in this context. Because I can tell you straight up: I’m not talking about an application of knowledge and tools to project activities. Rather, I’m highlighting the human condition to project our insecurities when we’re dislodged from the truth, when we’re overwhelmed to the point what we’re doing to others is reciprocally perceived.
Sometimes, we project insecurity out of feeling misjudged and misunderstood. Other times, we project insecurity to obtain a false sense of disconnection. Ever wonder why we play the victim card when we’re hurt and offended? Usually, the reason involves a desire to cast off our pain to fight or flight from it. The problem when we project insecurity, be it a suspicion, self-doubt, a reassurance craving, or unbridled fear, is we misappropriate humility and, in turn, miss opportunities to deal with offenses at their root level. Understandably, an insecure mindset can be taxed when confronting pride on top of everything else; however, we must realize if our belief in the reality of Christ is chained to seeing Him consistently reflected in the places He’s called us to, we can’t say we’re fully relying on Him. It’s one thing to be desperate for Christ to be known; it’s another to want His nature extended for our benefit.
Thankfully, by God’s grace, we have His Spirit to draw us to misaligned places needing correction (2 Timothy 3:16-17; Hebrews 12:11). In many situations, this is enough to mitigate an insecurity before it matures into a weapon. Yet, for those who are suffering at a high level, wrestling with grief, perhaps not as aware due to a medical condition and/or neurodivergence, certain behaviors and thought patterns may be more suppressed. What about these cases?
My theory is simple, though with application complexity under the surface:
Insecurity is a divergent manifestation of underlying thoughts straying from any root where freedom can be found.
In essence, it is a projection away from our original design by way of comparison, manufactured deficit filling, really any vehicle driving us away from surrender and reliance. Often, we project out, not up, when we’re shelled by concerns and anxieties outside our control or initiation. The question is: How do we project our way to Jesus, when the streams we’re in take us another way? For those in healthy places, how do we nurture cultures where God’s heart is evident, His power prevalent?
If I’m truly following Jesus for the sake of emulating Him, I’m not only putting myself in position to abide in my security in Christ, but also giving those around me a steppingstone foundation to orient accordingly. Put another way, our security in Christ doesn’t stop at the assurance of salvation but strengthens as we freely abide from the burden of condemnation, accept the credit of Christ’s righteousness (Romans 4:24), and replace unholy beliefs with radical, transformative truths. Adhering to this pathway, we can discover a new confidence amidst the freedom that purifies the way we love and partner with people.
So, may it be with this series – that those in need of purified projection find traction and momentum, where they can live secured in their walk with Christ. Buckle up, my friends. It’s going to be a fun, albeit bumpy ride as we journey closer to the Son.
It’s been three years to the day since Juju’s death.
For better and worse, Lys and I haven’t been the same since that fateful day. While grief intensity has lessened, life still feels like a tightrope. One false step and we’re praying for a safety net, just trying to survive – like when Juju was alive only without the hope of tomorrow. If only I were better at patience, maybe this whole waiting thing would be easier.
As Juju proved during her NICU tenure, progression and regression aren’t always mutually exclusive. At times within her fragile body, one element was improving while another was degrading. Her recovery and, at times, lack thereof, was anything but a linear wave. Like life itself, her journey was a winding roller coaster with unexpected turns and unprecedented breakthroughs. Her butterfly tattoo on my heart, not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and consider the glory of what she constantly experiences.
Yet, though the tears have remained mostly at bay the past year, there’s still a temptation to anger. God, why didn’t you somehow, someway cap her suffering? If you knew she was going to barely make it past a year, why defer the inevitable?
In most cases, I can convert those ‘whys’ into ‘look what God did’ and carry on. Where I stumble is the next level down: God, why aren’t people more naturally geared towards the broken-hearted? Why does the silence sometimes increase when it needs to decrease? In the shadows, you were there after Juju’s death. What about those who may not even be able to find you at all? What about them?
These questions have been raised before, and they’ll be raised again. Until the answers come, I, along with the rest of us, must settle in Christ (1 Peter 5:10; Colossians 2:6-7). For those who have lost a child, we don’t have any other option. At day’s end, everyone has a call to embrace their suffering and ditch their baggage. No exceptions. I know for me, sometimes I get into trouble tolerating the baggage while trying to ditch the suffering in a quest to find meaning in pain; however, in times of reset, I catch myself in the striving and commit my ways to God whether I feel like it. It’s hard as heck, don’t get me wrong. I just know as low as I feel sometimes, I’m only hindering my perspective when I punt prayer and vertical reliance.
I love how Paul opens Colossians 3:1: “Therefore if you have been raised with Christ, keep seeking the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.”
For starters, the chapter unpacks our ‘new self’ identity as a garment we can wear regardless of the day. But even more promising, we’re reminded in the intro how we’ve been raised with Christ to a new life, sharing in His resurrection from the dead. In a weird way, this hits home even more so these days. Even when I feel dead on the inside, somehow, I know I’m that much closer to the type of life I crave. Among all the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God is also my daughter. Your son. His grandson. Her granddaughter. Their mother, their father, our friend, etc.
The way God’s lap is designed, there is always a comfort and rest to draw from, even if it’s simply His presence and nothing more.
The problem is we’re not often content with the safety of God’s nearness because we’re dissatisfied with the security of it. Our kid passed away, so we doubt if God is who says He is. If God is a God of love, then why didn’t His sovereignty meet my faith in the middle? If God has the capability, why didn’t His power take pity on a soul that could have done wonders for Him if given the opportunity?
While I’m not condoning this as the correct posture to take, admittingly, this is a popular contention bereaved parents wrestle through. We desire the improbable; we believe in the impossible. We just wish it could have looked a certain way. And that’s okay…assuming we regularly surrender our grief, anxiety, fear, and anger. As Juju reminds us, there’s beauty to be found in the ashes of our sorrow, especially when we reframe our perspective to see a life well fought as an altar pointing people to Jesus. Our lives may always sound like a sad song, but that doesn’t mean what other people hear is the same tenor.
Trust me, life has been brutal, dare I say, savage, this decade. Despite the positive turn in recent years, my debates with God are still on the regular.
Dear Lord, thank you for what you did during Juju’s life and gifting my family with this incredible light, this testimony unfolding, but surely you know what it’s like to grieve. You know what it’s like to be separated from your only begotten Son. If you’re stripping me of anything my life could cling to other than you, so be it. I don’t have to know how you’re exalted in those moments as long you’re exalted at all. And with a daughter dancing in your courts, I dare not lose sight of the new life I have in Christ, knowing that’s exactly what she has.
For all you readers and co-sufferers out there, ask yourself: Will I be too stubborn in my grief to don new garments of praise? To serve and think within new wineskins? Or am I too scared to endure because I don’t want God to let me down again? I know for me, I don’t have the margin, nor do I want to give that question room to manifest. Thus, I will keep looking up and pressing on one step at a time, with Juju’s rays forever on the horizon. The victory’s been won. Let’s choose to walk it in. God, show us the way…
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