We don’t like to talk about ruins.

We like stories of victory — the healing, the breakthrough, the miracle. We want the dust to settle and the sun to rise. But what about when the walls are still crumbled, when the prayers haven’t been answered, and all you can see is what was lost?

There are times in life when everything we trusted is torn down — by grief, betrayal, war, trauma, illness, injustice. The ground gives way beneath our feet and nothing feels safe. We wonder where God is, and if He even sees us here.

But friend, the story of our faith has never been one of perfect people with tidy lives. It is the story of a God who enters into the rubble.

God walked with Adam and Eve after the fall, clothed them, and called them still.
He came to Hagar in the wilderness and said, “I see you.”
He wept with Mary at Lazarus’s tomb.
He was born into a poor family under Roman oppression.
He hung on a cross between criminals, stripped and mocked, misunderstood to His last breath.

And even after resurrection, Jesus still bore the scars.

This is the mystery of our faith: we are not alone in the ruins.

We are not forsaken in our loss, in our trauma, or in our aching questions. God is still Emmanuel — God with us. Not just in church pews or mountaintops, but in hospital rooms, in shelters, in bedrooms where grief sits like an uninvited guest. In cities torn by war. In hearts torn by silence.

The presence of God does not always look like resolution.
Sometimes, it looks like someone sitting in the ash heap with you.
Sometimes, it looks like breath in your lungs when you thought you couldn’t survive the night.
Sometimes, it looks like the smallest flicker of hope — enough to get you through the next five minutes.

And that, too, is holy.

You don’t have to rise quickly.
You don’t have to rebuild right now.
You don’t have to make meaning out of what broke you.

But let this settle into your bones: God is still in the ruins.

And He is not in a hurry.

He will sit with you until you are ready. He will hold your tears, honor your pain, and whisper life into what feels like death. And somehow, some way, the story isn’t over yet.