It doesn’t always come with a warning. Sometimes it slips in quietly, like a thick fog rolling over the viewscape just before dawn, softening everything until the edges of the world blur and you can’t quite see what’s real anymore. Other times it crashes down all at once, suddenly you find yourself staring at silent prayers, words falling flat on your tongue, songs slipping from your lips like empty echoes, and your heart… your heart feels like it’s trapped miles away from heaven, in a place you can’t name.
And yet somehow, despite the numbness, the confusion, the ache, you’re still showing up. You’re still lighting the candles, still sitting in the quiet, still saying the prayers, still walking the familiar path. That’s what makes it hurt so deeply. You’re going through the motions, speaking the words that once meant so much, holding the shape of faith while the fire inside flickers low, or maybe you’re not even sure if it’s there at all. And in those moments, when the world falls away and it’s just you and the silence, you begin to whisper softly, maybe even out loud, “I think I’m stumbling… maybe I’m a hypocrite… maybe I don’t even know if this is still real.”
But beloved of God, hear this: that is not hypocrisy. It’s not a mask you’re wearing to fool God or anyone else. It’s not a performance staged for applause or approval. What you’re feeling is grief. Hunger. The raw ache of a soul that hasn’t given up but is worn, stretched thin, longing for more than it can grasp. Hypocrisy hides in the shadows of indifference, in the absence of care, in pretending when you no longer care what’s true. What you have is the opposite, a heart still crying out, still reaching in the dark, still aching to find Him.
Because the ones who don’t care don’t wrestle. The ones who have walked away don’t spend their nights turning over questions like stones in their palms, wondering if they’re lost or found, good enough or too broken. But the ones who belong to Him? They’re the ones still asking the hard questions. They’re the ones who ache for truth even when it feels miles away.
Maybe you’ve cried out and heard only silence. Maybe you opened your Bible and the words looked like dusty pages, empty and meaningless. Maybe you tried to pray and felt like you were speaking into a void. Maybe you said hope aloud and caught yourself wondering—who am I really trying to convince? But here’s the truth: God doesn’t count your struggle as a betrayal. He sees it as a sacred cry from the depths. He never turns away from a soul that’s still whispering, “I want You. I’m here, even if I don’t feel You.”
Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” This isn’t a promise to the strong or the perfect—it is a promise to the fragile and weary, the ones whose hearts are splintered and souls heavy. God draws near to those who feel farthest away. When your faith is a flicker, He is the steady flame.
You might not be able to name it. You might not have words for this ache or this distance. But the One who wove your heart knows it all already. There’s no need to dress it up. No need to have it all figured out before you come to Him. He’s already there, waiting, watching, reaching out right in the middle of your stumbling.
Remember Peter, who stepped out in faith onto the stormy water. When fear took hold and he began to sink, he didn’t freeze or give up. He cried out, “Lord, save me!” And Jesus didn’t hesitate. He reached for him, pulled him close, steadied his shaking heart. That is who Jesus is, the Savior who meets us in our confusion and fear, who lifts us before we drown (Matthew 14:30-31).
Faith is not about flawless performance. It’s about reaching out, even in fear. It’s about the trust that says, “I can’t do this alone.” It’s about the courage to cry out when you feel like you’re slipping beneath the waves. The fact that you still reach, still ask for help, still long for Him, even in the dry places, is the very evidence that you belong to Him.
So if you’re standing on shaky legs, praying from a dry place, singing with a cracked voice, wondering if any of it counts, believe me, it does. He counts every tear. Every breath of hope. Every small step of trust. You might think you’re falling away, but you’re not. You’re being held, steadied by a love that never lets go.
2 Corinthians 12:9 reminds us that God’s grace is sufficient and His power is made perfect in weakness. When you feel weakest, that is when His strength is closest. Faith is not about always feeling strong or sure. It’s about turning back to Him again and again, even when it’s hard, even when you can’t feel Him.
The very fact that you wonder if you’re a hypocrite means you’re not. The very fact that you fear disappointing Him means your heart still longs to follow. Even in the moments you feel like you’re losing your grip, He isn’t letting go.
Psalm 73:26 says, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Your feelings may fail you, but God’s strength and love do not – ever.
You may feel far from God.
But He is never far from you.
Tell Him what’s on your heart.
AND THAT IS
images are done by chatgpt at my direction.