When You've Done All You Can
By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar
I know the kind of tears that carve rivers into your face the ones that spill freely when there’s no one around to witness them. I know what it’s like to weep inside, where no one can see, the hurt tucked so far into the corners of your soul that you wonder if it’ll ever come out. I’ve been there, knees to the ground, fists clenched, questioning whether my prayers were drifting aimlessly into a void.
Frustration has tried to choke me more times than I care to count. Anger, that silent predator, has sat at the edges of my mind, waiting for the moment I’d let it in. Bitterness tried to move into my heart like an unwelcome tenant, cluttering the space with resentment and regret. And, I’ll be honest there were days when it felt like it had me. I mean really had me spinning me around, whispering that it would be easier to just let go, to quit trying.
And people? The very ones who once stood with me, who promised, “I’ve got your back” they slipped away like shadows at dawn. I used to wonder why they left. Was I too much? Was my pain too loud? But I’ve come to realize that not everyone is equipped to walk with you through storms. Some people scatter when the skies grow dark because they can’t handle the rain.
Yet somehow, in all of this, I kept my knees to the earth and my spirit reaching toward the heavens. I didn’t have much left in me just a whisper of faith, a mustard seed of belief that the Creator still saw me. And even on days when my belief was barely holding on, it held on just the same.
You see, faith isn’t flashy. It doesn’t always come with shouts of triumph or waves of confidence. No, sometimes faith is the shaky voice that says, “I’ll try again tomorrow.” Sometimes it’s nothing more than a breath a fragile declaration that you refuse to be undone.
When you’ve done everything in your power, when you’ve knocked on every door and it still doesn’t open, you learn to wait not with arms crossed in defeat, but with a quiet, stubborn trust that something greater is at work. Waiting isn’t passive; it’s powerful. It’s an act of defiance against despair. It’s saying, “I still believe that this isn’t the end of my story.”
I remember nights when I sat in the dark, the kind of dark that feels physical, like it’s pressing against your chest. The quiet was so loud, and the questions circled like vultures: “What now? What’s the point?” And yet, in that emptiness, I’d hear a whisper, not outside but somewhere deep within: “Hold on a little longer.”
That’s the thing about storms they’re relentless, but they’re not eternal. And every tear, every ache, every “I can’t take this anymore” is seen. The Creator isn’t absent; He’s not indifferent. Sometimes we can’t see Him in the chaos, but that doesn’t mean He’s not there, holding us together when everything feels like it’s falling apart.
Don’t let go. Don’t crack. Even if the rain falls harder and the winds howl louder, stand your ground. Let prayer be your anchor. Let meditation be the stillness where you gather yourself again. It doesn’t matter how small your faith feels small things have moved mountains before.
When you’ve done all you can, trust the process. Trust that your tears are watering something unseen, something waiting to bloom. The pain isn’t wasted, no matter how pointless it feels. The ones who walk away, the bitterness that tries to consume you, the frustration that gnaws at your patience they’re all part of the refining fire.
You’re not forgotten. You’re not invisible. And this—this season that feels unbearable will pass. Not because you’re strong enough on your own, but because you’re held by hands that are.
So, here’s what I want to tell you: When you feel like you can’t take another step, let your knees hit the ground. When your words fail, let your tears speak. When you’ve done all you can, keep believing anyway. You’re not finished yet.
And neither is the Creator.
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