My Anywhere But Here Blog

When Holding On Is the Holiest Thing We Do

There are days when strength feels less like courage

and more like survival.

Today, I awoke wishing my life away.

I was wishing that I did not feel like an enemy was attacking me every millisecond.

I was overwhelmed by sunrise, yet still not feeling like the clouds had lifted.

I felt an emptiness—that my life was changing quicker than I could even keep up with it.

I now feel like my courage has dissipated,

and my soul has a longing for trust.

Trust that no matter what happens,

I can arrive at Heaven’s gates with a sense of understanding.

I sometimes think nobody could understand someone

who has been given no hope at this time.

I am tired of the days when people say,

“I understand… you’ll get through this. You can—I know it.”

Days when people tell you to be strong,

but they do not always understand

how heavy strength can feel

when your heart is already carrying so much—

and your heart isn’t working.

I have room in my heart for so much,

but it just isn’t working.

So it doesn’t have the strength

to hold everything anymore.

Some days,

just keeping yourself together

feels like its own quiet battle.

And when life becomes uncertain in ways

you never asked for

and never would have chosen,

it is easy to wonder

how much longer the soul can keep reaching

for light it cannot yet fully see.

That is the hard part of faith.

Not the faith we speak of easily.

Not the faith we write in greeting cards

or say aloud when everything feels manageable.

Not the kind of faith that comes from singing

“Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.”

But the kind of faith

that has to sit in the dark

and still whisper:

I will hold on.

Because sometimes holding on

is the bravest thing a person can do.

Sometimes it is not about having answers.

It is not about understanding God’s timing.

It is not about feeling cheerful

or spiritually unshaken.

Sometimes it is simply this:

Getting through the next hour.

Taking the next breath.

Making it through the next wave of fear.

Placing one foot in front of the other

when your heart would rather collapse

under the weight of it all.

There is something deeply human

about reaching that place

where you feel worn thin

and still choosing not to let go.

Not because you feel strong,

but because somewhere deep inside—

beneath the fear,

beneath the weariness,

beneath the questions you cannot answer—

there is still a flicker.

A flicker that says

this is not all there is.

Pain may speak loudly,

but it does not get the final word.

A flicker that says

God is still present

even when He feels painfully quiet.

And maybe that is what hope really is.

Not always bright.

Not always triumphant.

Not always steady.

Sometimes hope is just a trembling thing.

A small light in a very dark room.

A soul saying:

I do not know what comes next,

but I am still here.

I think there are seasons in life

when “being okay” does not mean

everything is fixed.

It means we are still walking.

Still breathing—even in the actual breathing struggles, not just life struggles.

Still believing, however faintly,

that darkness does not last forever.

It means trusting that tomorrow

may carry something this day could not.

It means accepting that even now,

in the middle of fear,

in the middle of sorrow,

in the middle of all we do not understand,

God may still be doing quiet work within us.

The world often celebrates

the loud kind of victory.

But I think heaven must also honor

the quieter kind.

The soul that did not give up.

The heart that kept believing through tears.

The weary person who kept going

when even one more step felt impossible.

There is holiness in that too.

And perhaps that is what we forget

when life becomes too painful

and too uncertain:

that endurance has a quiet voice,

and faith sometimes sounds like

a whisper instead of a shout.

It says:

Stay.

Breathe.

Hold on.

Do not let this moment tell you the whole story.

Stay in the moment until you utter your last breath.

Because this ache,

as consuming as it feels,

is not the end of your story.

And neither is this fear.

Neither is this grief.

Neither is this long and bewildering waiting.

There is still light,

even if all you can see right now

is the faintest trace of it.

Even if now you would rather be home in heaven

than here in this realm.

Not even in My Anywhere But Here

can quell these feelings and desires.

But…

There is still purpose,

even if today feels more like surviving

than living.

There is still God,

even here.

Especially here.

So if today feels heavy,

if your spirit feels tired,

if your questions feel bigger than your peace,

maybe the calling is not to be fearless.

Maybe the calling is simply

to keep going.

One step closer.

One foot in front of the other.

One prayer at a time.

One trembling act of trust after another.

And that, too, is faith.

_______________________________

Susan Thomas

In My Anywhere But Here, even when peace feels out of reach, the act of holding on becomes its own quiet form of arrival.