Not every day is the same.
But most Sundays are.
I wake up heavy. My body remembers before my eyes even open. Sunday doesn’t care if I slept or not; it comes anyway. I move slow, but everything inside me aches with urgency—like grief has its own heartbeat.
I don’t say much to God on Sundays. Some mornings I can’t say anything at all. So we just sit in the silence together. I stare at the wall. I stare at my hands. I stare at nothing.
I know He knows.
He knows how bad I want to go back to when things felt whole. Seemed better than what they are now.
He knows my pain deceives me, though.
He knows how my stomach knots when I pass by the streets I used to drive every day.
He knows I scroll past photos that used to make me laugh, and now, they make me wince a little on the inside.
He knows how much I hate folding the same t‑shirts and sweatshirts every week.
He knows how I can’t throw them away.
He knows they smell like memories I can’t wash out.
He knows they used to represent belonging.
He knows now, they’re a reminder of loss.
He knows why I still wear them though.
He knows how much I try to remember the good when I do.
He knows how hard I fought to stay.
He knows how I begged Him to let it work.
He knows how I twisted myself into someone I barely recognized.
He knows how little I thought of myself.
He knows how much I miss the church I thought I knew.
He knows how much I don’t want to hurt anyone.
He knows how much I trusted.
He knows how much I wanted to help people.
He knows I tried to forgive, to look away, to get over what happened.
He knows how lost I feel right now, without that life I built within that church.
He knows it’s hard to leave my house.
He knows I sit in my car in parking lots, trying to convince myself it’s safe to walk inside.
He knows how hard it is to rest right now.
He knows I still can’t pick up my phone.
He knows how hard it is to unlearn and deprogram.
He knows it’s hard to sleep at night, because I can’t turn off the reel stuck on loop.
He knows I want Him to tell me why He didn’t stop it—why He let him do those things to me under His steeple and in His name.
He knows the ache in my bones that sleep doesn’t touch.
He knows how fear wraps around my lungs like a snake.
He knows how unclean I feel, no matter how many showers I take.
He knows the words I still can’t say—the ones stuck behind my teeth, burning my throat.
He knows I may never speak them out loud.
He knows my Bible stays closed sometimes.
He knows I feel like a stranger to Him, even though I still talk to Him in my head all day long.
He knows I wonder why He saved me in the auditorium of that church, but not in the moments I really needed Him—in the safe room, in a storage closet, or in the office of that church.
He knows I can’t forget.
He knows I can’t outrun it.
He knows I wake up with grief like it’s strapped to my chest.
He knows I keep trying to ignore it.
He knows I beg Him to take it off—to let me breathe again.
But He doesn’t.
Because He knows I want something more than relief.
He knows what I really need.
He knows what I’ve wanted my whole life.
He knows how badly I want and need to heal.
And He knows healing doesn’t come without walking through the darkness.
He knows healing is found through the valley of the shadow of death, not in going around it.
He knows that every tear is part of the promise.
He knows that every quiet and rainy Sunday is part of answering my prayer.
He knows that even here—in my gray and hollow and silent ache, He’s keeping His word.
And He knows that one day, I will, too.