He Has Done Great Things: A Soul’s Whisper of Trust

He Has Done Great Things: A Soul’s Whisper of Trust

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Creator...

I trust You.

Even when I feel cornered, with my back scraping up against life’s hardest bricks... I still trust You.

When worry grabs at my ankles like tangled weeds and I’m standing in the middle of chaos, heart heavy and mind cloudy I trust You.

You've been too good to us.

Not just in the big, flashy miracles no, You’ve been good in the quiet things: in the small mercies, in the second winds, in the mornings we thought we couldn’t face.

That alone? Deserves a thank you. So here it is.

Thank You.

I don't show up with a choir behind me or a pulpit to preach from.

I'm not here dressed in perfection, trying to impress.

I worship You the best way I know how raw, real, and with this pen that knows every drop of my truth.

This pen? It's carried my aches.

This ink? It's blended with my tears.

These pages? They've held my unraveling and wrapped it back up with grace.

I'm not here to throw stones.

I don’t have a cross to put You or myself on.

There’s no firing squad of blame or shame waiting in my spirit.

I’m just a scribe. That’s all.

A quiet vessel who writes what rises up during the still hours.

What stirs in the silence after the crying.

What I hear whispered through meditation, soaking in the presence of the One who knows me better than I know myself.

I write because love asks me to.

I write because healing begs to be spoken aloud.

And if these words land on your heart like rain on dry ground, then we’re both doing the work.

So I say this to you:

Come out.

Yeah, come out of the womb of pain that keeps birthing fear. Step out of the tomb of silence that’s been holding your spirit hostage.

You were born to soar, not to roar.

Because like the African proverb says,

“A roaring lion kills no game.”

Loud doesn’t always mean strong. Sometimes power whispers.

Let me tell you a story an old village tale passed down like a lullaby:

The Child Who Listened

Way back, in a quiet village nestled beneath green mountains, a child was born who never uttered a word. Folks were quick to worry. "Something must be wrong," they murmured.

But the village elder just smiled and said, “This one’s storing wisdom.”

Time rolled by.

The child kept silent just watching, learning, helping.

Still, the people whispered behind bent backs.

Again, the elder said, “Wisdom waits for its moment.”

Then one year, a drought hit hard. Crops failed, rivers dried, and animals cried in hunger. Panic swept the village.

But the child, now grown, walked to an old tree, laid a hand on its bark, and whispered just three words:

“Dig beneath me.”

And under that tree… was a hidden spring.

The water saved the whole village.

And the elder? He cried. “He was never silent,” he said. “He was listening.”

Let that settle in your bones.

Real wisdom? It listens first.

Me?

I’m humble enough to admit I’m no better than anyone out here.

And wise enough to know... I’m not like everyone either.

My struggles? They’re my credentials.

My scars? They’re my soul’s signature.

I ain’t writing to impress you. I’m writing to reach you.

Not from a pulpit just from a place of love.

I’m not your preacher. I’m your brother.

I’m here to help lift that mountain off your shoulders...

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll help me lift mine.

Now, let’s get one thing straight:

To those who knew me “back then,” don’t throw my past in my face like it’s current news.

Don’t say, “Oh, I remember when he used to…”

Yeah, you do. And I remember too. But that man has evolved. That man has grown up. That man has healed.

And if you never knew me at all?

Please don’t come looking for my grave trying to dig up who I used to be.

What’s a corpse gonna tell you about my soul?

If you really want to know me... look past the skin, the clothes, the noise.

Look at my spirit that’s where the truth’s been hiding.

I’m not into wearing masks.

Not for applause.

Not for approval.

I wear grace. I wear truth. I wear humility like it’s stitched to my bones.

And before I close, let me share one more thing a little story, a parable that found me in a dream:

The Parable of the Fractured Cup

There was this woman, wandering through a dusty street market, who stumbled on a chipped little cup. It wasn’t fancy cracked, uneven, worn. But it called out to her.

She took it home.

Every night, she poured her prayers into it.

Whispers of gratitude. Cries for healing. Sighs too deep for words.

Those prayers seeped into the cracks.

Over time, they glowed like golden veins running through a broken thing made holy.

One day, someone asked her, “Why not get a better cup?”

She smiled and said, “This one? It holds more than water it holds me.”

That, my friend, is the magic.

Our broken pieces, when filled with something sacred, become beautiful.

You’re that cup.

I’m that cup.

And the Creator?

He’s still pouring love, mercy, and strength into every fracture we thought disqualified us.

So come as you are.

Bring the baggage, the bruises, the brilliance.

There ain’t no checklist to get in this circle. Just a willing heart and an open soul.

Let’s build something real together.

A connection not dressed in ritual or religion, but clothed in truth and spiritual trust.

Here, there are no roles.

No performances.

Just Presence.

Creator, thank You.

For every door You shut because it wasn’t for me.

For every “no” that protected me from my own desperation.

For every heartbreak that stretched me.

And every lonely night that turned out to be a sacred appointment with You.

And to you, the reader:

You’re not forgotten.

You’re not broken beyond repair.

You’re not too late or too far gone.

You’re in the middle of your becoming.

You are stardust and breath.

You are necessary.

You are loved.

So let’s pray not with scripted lines, but with real tears and real hope.

Let’s meditate not to escape, but to remember who we are.

Let’s write, sing, whisper, shout, paint whatever helps you reach that deep part of yourself.

That part that knows... you’re more than your pain.

Because the One who strung galaxies like beads still stops to hear your quiet sobs.

The One who painted the skies still finds time to pour healing into you.

I write these words not because I have it all together,

But because I’ve been shattered and rescued and made whole again.

I write because someone out there needs to know He has done great things.

He’s doing great things.

And baby, He’s not done yet.

All I can say is:

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Author’s Note

I know... some of y’all might be thinking:

"Kateb, you keep writing about the same stuff. Trust the Creator. Heal. Let go. Love. Grow. Meditate. Repeat."

Maybe you’re tired of it.

But let me tell you something, whether you're reading this with an open heart or side-eyeing from a distance…

I’m doing what I was assigned to do.

Every reflection I write? It's a different prescription for a different soul.

Some wounds are surface. Some run bone-deep. Some folks need stitches. Others need light.

Yeah, I use the same spiritual cabinet, but every mix is custom different colors, different strengths, all blended by the One who called me to write.

I ain’t here to entertain or cater to critique.

I’m here for the ones who are quietly bleeding.

I’m not recycling. I’m reviving.

And if the message sounds familiar… maybe it’s ‘cause it ain’t finished working in you yet.

Sometimes healing shows up dressed in repetition, knocking softly, again and again, until the heart says, "Okay, I’m ready."

So if you’re worn out? Rest. I get it.

But know this these words will still be here when you’re ready to receive again.

Every reflection comes from a fresh layer I had to peel back.

A new wound that got air.

A new prayer that broke loose.

And I’ll keep showing up with my pen… until the healing is done.

Or until I’m called home.

With grace, with honesty,

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Somethings are worth fighting for....

Somethings are bigger than you......

No matter the storm we face, The Creators grace is sufficient to see us through...

We are not Self-sufficient.