Jesus Is Near: A Letter from the Deep End

Some nights, the ceiling becomes my confessor. I lie there counting heartbeats, wondering if tomorrow will feel different or if I'm destined to replay this same internal war until I'm too tired to fight anymore.

I believe in God, I do. But belief doesn't silence the voice that whispers
you're not enough
when I'm trying to fall asleep. Faith doesn't stop the sudden drop in my chest when an intrusive thought crashes into an otherwise normal Tuesday.

The cruelest part isn't the darkness itself. It's the hope. Those golden mornings when I wake up feeling human again, convinced I've finally broken free. I'll go days feeling like myself, laughing at jokes, making plans. Then something shifts, maybe it's nothing, maybe it's everything, and I'm drowning in my own head again.

I don't want to die. But I don't always want to keep doing this either. There's a difference that's hard to explain to someone who's never lived in that in-between space where existing feels like work and rest feels impossible.

Scripture

The Bible is full of people who felt too far gone. Elijah begged God to take his life. Job cursed the day he was born. David cried out from depths that felt bottomless. Even Jonah would rather die than face his calling.

These weren't weak people. They were human people. And God wasn't finished with any of them.

Pain lies. It whispers that this feeling is forever, that you're alone, that there's no way through. But pain is a debt that time and grace eventually pay off. The very valleys that feel like they might swallow you whole are often the places where God does his deepest work.

What's Coming

Hold on. Not because it's easy, but because you haven't seen what's coming yet.

You're going to laugh so hard your stomach hurts at a joke that wasn't even funny. You'll drive with the windows down, feeling the music in your chest. You'll taste something that makes you close your eyes a little longer just to savor it.

You'll meet people who see you—really see you. You'll sit by a fire on a cold night, wrapped in warmth that goes deeper than temperature. You'll listen to rain against your window and feel grateful for the sound.

One morning after a sleepless night, you'll watch the sunrise and not wish you were anywhere else. You'll hold a baby and remember how precious life really is. You'll love someone and let them love you back.

And one day, without even thinking about it, you'll look around and whisper, "Thank you, God, for giving me the strength to stay."

The enemy wants you to believe this pain is the end of your story. But God is still writing. The very things trying to break you today might become the testimony that sets someone else free tomorrow.

And when the night feels longest, and the ceiling feels like the only one listening, remember Jesus is nearer than your next heartbeat.

Even in the silence, even in the suffering, you're not alone.

Especially then.

Life is always worth living, not just for what's ahead in this world, but for what's waiting beyond it.