“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” — Revelation 3:20
God does not wait for your family to heal itself. He enters the silence, the strain, the unspeakable hurt, and brings His peace there. —D.
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God sees you standing in the quiet ruins of family. A place once meant for warmth, now laced with silence and strain. He sees how every word is weighed, how footsteps are measured around old griefs no one names. He sees how each smile stretches thin, how politeness has become a kind of armor, a way to survive without opening the wounds. This isn’t the kind of pain people bring to the altar or mention in small talk, it’s deeper. Older. It lives in the walls.
But God does not flinch. He does not look away from this brittle landscape. He steps into it. Walks straight into the strained silences, the half-healed rifts, the weariness of always keeping the peace. He does not wait for you to fix it. He doesn’t demand that you find the perfect words or unravel knots tied long before your voice could speak. No. He draws near, and He holds you. With a grace that doesn’t rush. With a love that moves like balm through the unseen wounds, easing what no apology has ever reached.
God forgives you. He forgives them. He forgives what can’t be named. And more than that, He enters the loneliness itself. He sits with you in it. Speaks peace into rooms where tension has long taken root. In Christ, God unlocks the doors that have stayed shut for too long. He breathes new breath into places where love once suffocated. And then, gently, He calls you out from behind the mask, out from the roles you’ve had to play, to step into His light. Not to pretend. Not to forget. But to be free. To live as one known and loved. Even here. Even now. He is with you. And He is not leaving.