I’ve sat in the silence of my own home many times in the past 3 years of living in my little apartment. There have been silent moments of peace, silent moments of gratitude, silent moments of fear, silent moments of uncertainty and silent moments of doubt. Tonight I sat in the silence of sadness. The silence of disappointment. The silence of looking at a life I had wanted so badly and finally had to let go of.

I sat and I cried. I cried and I cried and I CRIED. As I gasped to regain my breath, amidst all the tears and the overwhelming pain swelling in my heart, I turned my eyes up. Tonight I came to the realization that just because you can’t always lift you heart, you can always lift your eyes. Life isn’t always “fair” and it certainly doesn’t always feel good. Sometimes it hits you so hard you feel like you can’t breathe.

In the midst of truly breaking down, I felt a sense of sincere hope. A hope that I haven’t felt in a long time.  A sense that even in the midst of my most genuine uncertainty, there was still a reason to sing. Even though it doesn’t always make sense in the present, the past has taught me that all things are made infinitely more clear in time. Although sometimes “hallelujah” is really hard in the moment, it’s still so necessary to worship, to be thankful.  

Heartache rarely comes with reason. It causes question. It causes a feeling of constantly walking on unstable ground. To me, that’s the beauty of real faith. The ability to walk blindly into the darkest of situations, and despite the anger and emotion of it all, trust that God is still God.

As I sat on my kitchen floor, tears streaming down my face and my heart feeling like it was shattering into pieces, the only words I could get out were, “You are still good. You are still sovereign. I choose you.” Although they were words filled with heartbreak, they were without anger. For me, that’s a step forward. It’s easy to blame God for things not going the way you had planned and for things looking undeniably different than you’d imagined.

When dreams seem to die and plans change, it’s so easy to become callused and closed off to the idea of an invisible God. Falling in love with a God that’s neither tangible nor visible is really hard. Tonight was the first night that I can honestly say, I leaned into the presence of an invisible God. I pulled on the strength of something I couldn’t see, but something I couldn’t deny.

Disappointment and pain are inevitable. Hurt certainly doesn’t discriminate and we all experience it in one way or another, at some point. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that God is never negligent. He may be out of sight, but He is never missing. We may distance ourselves in the face of human emotion, intention and discomfort, but He is never absent.

To me, the beauty of Jesus is truly reflected in the broken moments. It’s in the pain and the moments of truly surrendering our will, that our need for Him is magnified. Choosing Jesus doesn’t always feel good. It doesn’t always feel comfortable. Sometimes when the breath to praise is lost, the simple act of putting our arms out in surrender and choosing joy is enough. It’s all He’s asking for.

The beauty in believing blindly is knowing that the striving can finally cease. The worry and the uncertainty completely lose their power. I’ve learned that sometimes when we’re called to rejoice in sadness, we don’t always have the song, but He can still teach our feet to dance upon disappointment.