Psalm of the Longing Ones
Every night,
I close my eyes with gratitude on my lips—
thankful for breath, for mercy, for the moments You’ve given.
And then, like a child with one final ask
before sleep steals the day,
I whisper:
“Please, Lord—bring me Home.”
Not a house.
Not a place with walls.
But Home.
Where every ache dissolves into presence,
where every tear is understood before it falls,
where You are not hidden by shadow or doubt
but fully seen.
And every morning—
for over a decade—
I wake with a thud in my chest.
The heaviness returns.
The silence answers.
And I am still here.
Still wandering in this strange land
where joy and sorrow trade places in a moment.
Still bearing the weight of breath
that I did not ask for.
But somehow,
even in this mourning that repeats each morning,
You are here, too.
In the stillness.
In the ache.
In the not-yet.
So I rise again—
not because I want to stay,
but because You haven’t called me Home.
And maybe, just maybe,
there is something sacred in the staying.
Until that day,
when morning finally breaks
on the other side of sorrow—
I’ll keep whispering thanks through tears.
And I’ll keep asking.
And You’ll keep being…
God enough
for one more day.