"Some Wounds Stay”
They told you He would heal you.
Said it with the certainty of a weather report:
clear skies, in Jesus’ name.
Said if you just had more faith,
if you just forgave that person,
if you just stopped speaking the diagnosis over yourself,
you’d be free. Whole. Dancing.
And when the pain stayed—
when the medicine kept coming
and the nights stayed long
and the shadow didn’t lift—
they didn’t have much else to say.
Just a verse or two, maybe.
A smile stretched too wide.
But here’s what I’ve learned, quietly and slowly,
in the long waiting room of unanswered prayer:
Some wounds stay.
Not because you’re too broken.
Not because you’re faithless.
Not because God is cruel.
But because we do not worship a vending machine.
We worship a man with wounds still in His hands.
There are miracles, yes.
Bones knit. Minds clear. Addictions lift.
And when it happens, we sing loud.
But there are also other miracles—
quieter ones,
less tidy.
The miracle of getting out of bed
when despair has pinned you for days.
The miracle of holding a friend’s hand in chemo,
knowing full well the prayer may not change the scan.
The miracle of praising God with a limp.
We are not promised a life free from suffering.
We are promised a God who enters it.
Who bleeds.
Who weeps.
Who knows what it is to plead for the cup to pass—and drink it anyway.
And if you’re still sick, still struggling,
still trying to reconcile your pain with His promise,
hear this, gently:
Your condition is not your condemnation.
Some healing will come in time.
Some won’t come until the other side of time.
And yet—somehow, some way—
He is enough even when the cure isn’t.
So take your pills.
Say your prayers.
See your therapist.
Walk with a cane.
Cry in the middle of worship.
Praise in the middle of doubt.
And don’t let anyone sell you a gospel
that cannot hold your pain.
Because Christ doesn’t just heal the sick.
He dwells with them.
And that—however strange, however unsatisfying to our hunger for certainty—
is its own kind of healing.
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