“Coming home to God doesn’t require perfection—just the courage to be real.”
Sometimes we shut down because life hurts too much.
When my granddaughter died suddenly, without warning, my world collapsed.
It wasn’t just grief.
It was trauma. It was anguish. It was soul-crushing despair.
The kind that knocks you to your knees and hollows you out.
The kind that breaks your heart, breaks your body, and destroys your faith.
I was so angry I couldn’t even cry. And when I wasn’t mad, I was numb. I stayed strong for my son, who was unraveling in front of me.
He needed me to be steady, and I was—on the outside.
But inside, I was torn wide open, swinging between a rage so fierce it scared me and a numbness so heavy I couldn’t feel anything at all.
I never resented holding that space for him. I would do it again without hesitation. That’s what mothers do.
Still, the cost was real.
I wrote my granddaughter’s obituary. Then I put down my pen. I stopped writing and I stopped speaking to God for almost a year. As far as I was concerned, I had nothing to write about and no interest in conversing with the One I was holding responsible for letting it happen.
That was the beginning of a long, quiet distance between me and the One I had always turned to. I didn’t stop believing in God. I just didn’t want to talk to a God I felt had broken my heart. But even in the silence, a part of me still longed for that connection.
It took eight months for the tears to come.
I remember—one Saturday afternoon, I was walking from my living room toward the kitchen, and something inside me just… broke.
And I cried.
I cried for everything that was supposed to be.
The birthdays that won’t come.
The laughter I’ll never get to hear.
The future I had imagined—gone in a blink.
That day was a turning point for me.
Not because everything changed, but because something softened. The tears didn’t fix anything, but they opened the door. They let something move again in a place that had been shut tight for too long.
Spiritual reconnection, for me, didn’t happen all at once.
It came slowly. In the pauses. In the tears I allowed to flow. In the writing, I thought I’d never do again.
It came through the quiet ways God kept showing up—in sunrises, and butterflies, and flowers, and beautiful songs that touched me when I wasn’t looking.
It came through friends who sat with me.
It came through the ache I stopped trying to outrun.
I wasn’t trying to be spiritual. I wasn’t even trying to heal.
I was just trying to stay with myself long enough to make it through each day.
But even in that, something sacred was happening.
And I realized I wanted to come home.
For me, coming home to God meant letting Spirit meet me exactly where I was: angry, broken, undone.
Yet still becoming whole.
Now, our relationship feels easy and comfortable. More personal.
I know I don’t have to pretend I’m okay when I’m not. I show up with openness, honesty, and truth, bringing whatever is real in the moment.
The questions. The doubts. The desires.
Sometimes it’s just sitting in stillness, letting the tears come without needing to explain why. And knowing I’m not sitting alone.
You’re allowed to come home—even if you left angry and carrying bitterness. Even if you’ve been gone for a long time.
Maybe your return doesn’t look like mine.
Maybe it looks like taking a walk and letting the wind remind you you’re alive.
Maybe it’s crying in the shower and asking God if He’s still listening.
Maybe it’s writing again. Singing again. Breathing again.
Whatever it is, let it be enough.
There’s no right way to come home.
Only your way.
And it’s sacred.
If you’ve been away because grief, anger, or life itself made you go silent, you can come home now.
🖋️ Reflection
What would it feel like to let God meet you right where you are, without needing to change anything first?
Coming home to God is never about being perfect. It’s about being willing.
Be Blessed,
Taylor