There are days when the weight of it all presses in too close.

Wars rage—some far away, some just beneath the skin of our own communities. I’ve walked the streets of Ukraine during a time of devastation, sat with students whose eyes carry both fierce resilience and unimaginable grief. I’ve seen the cost of war not just in rubble, but in hearts—young and old—trying to make sense of what has been lost, what has been shattered, and whether healing is possible.

I return home, and the pain doesn’t stay behind.

I sit with clients whose trauma echoes in every part of their being. Abuse survivors, people shaped by addiction, those who’ve endured betrayal, abandonment, and complex generational wounds. And though I am a therapist, I am not immune. I carry my own scars. I’ve known personal trauma, lived through seasons that left my soul scraped raw, wrestled with the echoes of pain that show up uninvited.

And sometimes, it’s not just the individual stories that haunt me—it’s the systems that allow harm to flourish.

I’ve worked in contexts where abuse was covered up instead of confronted. I’ve seen churches, cults, and institutions more committed to protecting their image than protecting the vulnerable. I’ve felt the sting of systemic racism, witnessed the corrosive effects of sexism, and watched how the language of God has been used to justify control rather than cultivate compassion. These aren’t isolated incidents. They’re part of a pattern—deeply embedded, tragically normalized, and too often silenced.

There are days I want to shout, Where is justice? Where is mercy? Where is God in all of this?

And I think… maybe that’s the most honest prayer we can offer sometimes.

Because if we read Scripture closely, we find a God who doesn’t shy away from these questions. The Psalms are full of them. How long, O Lord? Why have You forsaken me? Why do the wicked prosper?

We meet prophets who cry out against corrupt leaders and unjust systems. We follow Jesus, who flipped over tables in the temple—not because He was angry at people’s emotions, but because injustice and exploitation were taking place in God’s name. Jesus, who touched the untouchable, lifted up the marginalized, and told the truth even when it cost Him everything. Jesus, who suffered not just to save our souls, but to enter into the fullness of human suffering. Who bore wounds Himself.

This is not a God who avoids pain.

This is a God who joins us in it.

Still, it doesn’t make it easy. The pain is real. The rage is real. The questions are real.

But so is the invitation.

To stay tender.

To speak truth.

To work for change without losing heart.

To believe that healing is possible—even here. Even now.

There’s a strange kind of holiness in the wrestling. Jacob walked away with a limp, but also a blessing. Maybe we will too. Maybe our questions, our anger, our heartbreak—maybe these are not signs we’ve lost faith, but signs we are contending for a faith that’s worthy of the God we follow.

A faith that sees. That listens. That protects. That restores.

I don’t have all the answers. But I believe in a God who does not look away. And when I’m tempted to despair, I look to the faces of those who keep going—the clients who show up, the students who still hope, the survivors who speak their truth.

Their courage reminds me that love is still here. And so is God.

Even in the heartbreak. Especially there.