Still I Hold

Still I Hold

By Kateb Shunnar

There are moments when silence becomes loud when life seems like it’s whispering abandonment in your ears, and every breath you take feels like a weight you weren't meant to carry. And yet, even in those echoing, empty spaces, I feel the nearness of the One who shaped the stars and carved out rivers in the earth. No, I have not been forgotten. And neither have you.

The Creator has never turned His face away. It is we who sometimes lose sight, distracted by the smoke of our own desires or the fog of our unmet expectations. But even when we are blind, He sees. Even when we drift, He anchors. The soul may tremble with weariness, but the Creator is unwavering. His love does not falter, nor does it diminish. It is constant like the orbit of the moon, like the song of the tide, like the hush that falls over a mountain at dawn.

Sometimes I wonder how could I doubt? Was it not He who found me shivering in uncertainty and wrapped me in quiet assurance? Was it not He who saw my empty hands and filled them not always with what I wanted, but always with what I needed? My belly may have growled, but my spirit has always been fed. My path may have twisted, but my feet were never left without ground to touch.

He saw me when I was a fragile thought in my mother’s womb, a silent prayer curled into a whisper of blood and hope. And with infinite patience, He sculpted me stage by stage, never rushing, never erring. He crafted purpose into my bones and breath into my lungs. And when I entered this world crying and confused, He placed nourishment not in the market nor the field, but within the chest of my mother milk drawn from mercy, not biology. A soft miracle. A reminder that His provisions do not depend on our plans.

So tell me, which of these mercies can I ever deny?

I’ve learned that sometimes what feels like ruin is really a reordering. When my life feels like a house in disrepair, perhaps it is only the walls of ego that are falling so the light can finally reach the floor. And though my pockets may be filled with lint more than currency, and though my name may never flash in bright lights, I am rich in unseen ways. I walk with an invisible majesty the nearness of the Creator’s care.

The sun never forgets to rise, and the moon never rebels against its rhythm. The trees never argue about when to bow. Everything in creation submits with elegance and trust. It is only us blessed with choice and swollen with self who resist the gentle pull of submission. But when I remember… oh, when I remember, I find the peace I’ve been chasing. The kind of peace that doesn't require a perfect life, only a trusting heart.

And so I proclaim not with volume, but with my living that He has never abandoned me. I declare His generosity not just with words, but by lifting the fallen and embracing the rejected. I was one of them. I still am sometimes. And because of that, I cannot close my hands to the beggar, nor my heart to the broken. I cannot roll my eyes at the struggling soul who wears pain like a second skin, because I too have walked with cracked feet on burning paths.

There’s something sacred about the ones who are struggling. They are the unsung prophets of perseverance. They teach us that faith isn’t a luxury; it’s a lifeline. And if you listen closely, you can hear the Divine humming in their sighs, cradling them in unseen arms.

So I say to you, and to myself do not mock the one who has stumbled. Do not shame the one whose clothes are threadbare or whose hope is thinning. For that same breath of life that animates you lives in them. And the Creator's mercy is wide enough to hold us all, especially the ones we overlook.

I remember once standing beside a river in the early hours, watching how the light draped itself gently across the water. The wind whispered the names of trees I’d never learned, and in that stillness, I felt an embrace not made of arms. It was then I understood: the Creator does not shout to get our attention. He waits. And whispers. And places signs in the choreography of the cosmos. In fruit that grows from forgotten seeds. In the eyes of a child who trusts without proof. In the resilience of those who keep going without applause.

And yet how often do we forget? When things go well, we pat ourselves on the back. We speak of “luck” and “timing” and “talent.” And when things fall apart, we question His presence. As if the One who split the sea and sends rain to barren land would leave us stranded just because we can't see the whole picture.

But I refuse to let doubt be my language. Even when love hides behind silence. Even when the nights stretch long and dreams defer like wilting petals. Still, I believe. Still, I hold.

I hold onto the hand that shaped me, even when mine trembles. I hold, even when people turn their backs and the world feels cruel and cold. Because the Creator’s warmth is not measured by public approval. It is felt in the quiet of your soul when everything else has failed.

So if you are reading this, if your life feels like scattered puzzle pieces or if your heart feels like it’s held together by tape and prayer, remember this: You are not alone. You are not unloved. The Creator has not walked away from you. In fact, He has never been closer.

Look around you the earth testifies. The balance of the sky, the obedience of the moon, the grace of flowing water, the aroma of herbs kissed by sun all of it declares His mercy, His artistry, His nearness. And you, dear soul, are part of that song. You matter. Not because the world says so, but because the One who made the world says so.

And even if you’ve wandered, even if you’ve cursed the sky or broken every vow you made to yourself still, He waits. Not with wrath, but with open arms. Because He knows what He placed inside you. A sacred spark. A flicker of Himself.

So how could I ever deny the Giver of all gifts? Though my hands may be empty and my journey long, my heart is full of reminders. My scars have become verses. My struggles, a prayer. And my soul? It sings not because life is perfect, but because the One who sustains it is.

Still I hold. Not because I am strong, but because He is.