The Darkest Hour
The cold edges of the concrete pathway in front of our house dug into my back as I lay beneath the stars. My arms splayed out - palms open. It was well after midnight; I was surrounded by darkness and it wasn’t just from the night sky.
There are moments when the weight of the world feels like it’s crushing you from the inside out. The loneliness sinks deeper than you thought possible. The silence of the night echoes louder than any noise. You lie still—not because you’re at peace, but because you’re exhausted from the fight.
I’ve been there. And maybe, you have too.
That night, my presence felt too loud, too complicated. I wasn’t sure if I had anything left to offer anyone—especially God. The lies were loud: You mess everything up. You’re too much - a burden. You bring people down. No one would choose you. Not even Him.
But even in that pit of lies, something in me chose to look up. Not because I felt worthy. But because I had nothing left but surrender.
So, I watched the stars in their flickering dance and cried out my fears to a quiet world. I whispered my pain to a night sky that had heard a million cries like mine. My arms spread out—not in confidence, but in desperation. I didn’t even know what to pray. I just needed something to change.
And then—like wind rustling through the trees—I felt it.
His voice.
His presence.
His reach.
“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Matthew 11:28
At that moment, it wasn’t just a verse. It wasn’t just a vague comfort. It was Him. The living, present, tender God—speaking directly to my heart.
In my feeble reaching for Him…He reached back.
So often, when we talk about faith, we talk about the ways we pursue God. We journal. We pray. We sing. We read. We show up. And those are good, beautiful things. They matter.
But what changes everything—what truly heals the wounds and silences the lies—isn’t just that we seek Him.
It’s that He meets us with immense, unstoppable, unshakeable love when we do. It’s those “God Moments” that crack the foundation of our lies so light can flood places that have been shrouded in darkness.
His response to our reach isn’t delayed. It’s not distant. He doesn’t wait to see if we’re worthy. He doesn’t cross His arms and make us prove our sincerity. He doesn’t give us a list of things to fix first.
He runs to us.
He gathers the broken pieces.
He gently wipes the tears we’re ashamed to cry.
He whispers truth over the lies we’ve repeated for too long.
The Gospel was never about us pulling ourselves together enough to finally reach God. It was always about a God who came down. A God who chose to dwell among us. A Savior who touched lepers, who wept with the grieving,who called the overlooked by name.
That same God is the one who responds when we stretch trembling fingers toward Heaven and whisper, “Help.”
When the Prodigal Son trudged back home, rehearsing his apology, expecting rejection—his father ran. Not walked. Not waited on the porch with crossed arms. Ran. (Luke 15:20)
That’s what God does.
When we reach for Him, He doesn’t just match our effort. He overwhelms it with His.
He pours grace where we expect guilt.
He speaks peace where we anticipate punishment.
He draws near—not because we did something right—but because His nature is to love.
“YOU are not a burden,” His voice said, “but you are burdened right now. Come to me, for I will give you rest. And I will give you peace.”
Those words unraveled the lie I didn’t even know I’d built my life around: that I had to earn love. That I had to shrink myself to be accepted. That I had to come to God clean.But He never asked for perfection. He asks for presence. And when we come—mess and all—He meets us with mercy.
Maybe you’ve been holding your breath. Maybe you’ve been trying to “feel” worthy enough to pray. Maybe you’ve been drowning in the noise of anxiety, shame, grief, or comparison.
Reach for Him.
And when you do, expect Him to reach back.
Expect Him to remind you that you’re seen.
That you’re safe.
That you are held, not because of what you bring, but because of who He is.
Let’s not forget—His reach is not like ours.
Ours is limited. We tire. We grow unsure. We falter.
But God’s love is vast. His grace, deeper than your deepest ache. His nearness, closer than the breath in your lungs.
When we turn to Him, He doesn’t just show up—
He pours Himself out.
He calms storms within.
He anchors souls in chaos.
He transforms dark nights into holy ground.
Let this be your reminder:
You are not forgotten.
You are not too far gone.
You are not too broken or too much.
You are deeply loved by a God who always reaches back.
