I have never struggled with believing that God exists.
What I struggle with is letting go of this life.
I love the familiar weight of being here — the faces I know, the routines that anchor me, the small responsibilities that make life feel meaningful. I don’t want death to be final. I don’t want separation. I don’t want to imagine a world where I am no longer present for the ones I love.
And yet, faith quietly asks me to trust that death is not an ending, but an opening.
Faith isn’t bravery. It’s consent.
Not the absence of fear — but the willingness to move forward with fear still in hand.
There is a part of me that clings to this existence, afraid that letting go means losing everything. But Scripture tells a different story. It doesn’t deny the fear; it redeems it.
“What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived the things God has prepared for those who love Him.”
— 1 Corinthians 2:9
Faith does not require me to understand what comes next.
It only asks that I trust the One who goes before me.
Even Jesus felt the weight of surrender.
“Father, if You are willing, take this cup from Me; yet not My will, but Yours be done.”
— Luke 22:42
If the Son of God trembled at the threshold, then my fear is not a failure — it is part of being human.
The promise of faith is not that we won’t grieve this life, but that this life is not all there is.
“For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:1
What feels like loss is not abandonment.
What feels like surrender is not erasure.
Death does not take us away from love — it carries us deeper into it.
Faith, then, is not a heroic leap into darkness.
It is a quiet yes whispered into the unknown.
A consent to believe that the God who gave this life so generously will not be careless with what comes next.
Closing Prayer
Lord,
You know how tightly I hold this life.
You see my fear of letting go and my longing to remain with those I love.
Teach me that faith is not about courage, but about trust.
Help me consent — not because I am unafraid, but because You are faithful.
When the time comes, may I rest in the hope that nothing given by You is ever truly lost.
Amen.
