Maybe That’s The Point

I used to think
when sorrow struck,
God had forgotten—
turned His face,
let me slip
through unseen cracks.

I thought He wasn’t listening,
that He didn’t see me fall.
And so,
my anger grew—
but underneath
it was fear,
all along.

Maybe I saw Him
as a genie—
wishes in, blessings out,
a giver of dreams
without delay.

Or maybe,
I just couldn’t bear
the truth:
I’m not in control.

But maybe that’s the point.

When life breaks down,
it’s not because He’s gone,
or blind,
or cruel.

Maybe He sees—
every fracture,
every cry behind the silence—
and in love,
He waits,
asks me to seek,
to search for more
than answers.

I had the right
to rage.
My heart
was never wrong
for feeling.

But not every sorrow
is born of evil.
Not every “no”
is a wound.

Sometimes,
it’s His hand—
quiet,
firm—
pulling me away
from what I thought
was mine.

Because love
is not always giving.
Sometimes,
it’s withholding.

Maybe what I wanted
would have undone me.
And He—
who knows me deeper
than I’ll ever know myself—
chose better.

So maybe that’s the point:
He draws the line
not out of wrath,
but wonder—
to lead me closer
to what heals,
what holds,
what lasts.

He wants to give
not just what I want,
but always
what I need.

And maybe—
just maybe—
that’s the point.