✨for the woman who waited in the wilderness✨
Where was her Hosea when she was going through it? When the wind howled louder than her prayers and the roof of her faith caved in?
Where was he when their daughter lay wilted… bones aching, spirit flickering like a candle in the drafts of doubt… While she blamed her own womb for not building her stronger?
Where was he when she ran like a ghost through her own memories, fleeing the hollers of childhood that still echo in her bones, too afraid to name the things that hunted her in the dark?
Where was her Hosea when she needed a man who didn’t just wear Jesus like a Sunday suit, but became Him… bending low with healing in his hands, and mercy on his breath?
Where was he when she stood barefoot in the rain, begging him to see her with new eyes… eyes not dulled by disappointment or dust, but burning with a love reborn in the furnace?
Where was her Hosea when she needed forgiveness… not preached, but poured out like oil on her aching head… thick with grace, holy enough to stay?
Where was he when the wilderness called her back, when she asked him to follow, not to fix her, but to find her?
Her Hosea was running to the arms of another woman while she was collapsing in her own.
Her Hosea was rocking someone else’s children to sleep, while she was rocking in the corner trying not to scream.
He brought her family to church while theirs unraveled in the pews. He stood in the light with her… all smiles and hallelujahs… but wouldn’t step into the dark with his wife when she begged for just one hand to hold.
He watched her waste away …become a stranger even she couldn’t recognize… and still, he blamed her. For all of it.
Just like every man before him—he ran.
Ran from the mess.
Ran from the mirror she became.
Ran from the questions he didn’t have the courage to ask,and the answers he didn’t want to carry.
She asked him once—just once—to pray for her. He said it made him “uncomfortable.” As if her unraveling was too sacred for his convenience.
Where was her Hosea when she needed basic love?Not sermons. Not perfection. Just love.
He was too busy entertaining CEOs and sales reps, laughing in circles where she didn’t belong, while she folded laundry and grief in the same quiet room.
So, she did what women like her always do:
She prayed for herself.
She held herself.
She sat in the dark with herself.
And herself asked the questions she needed someone to ask:
“What’s the matter, baby girl?
How can I help you?”
She picked up her own heart from the pile of ashes he left her in. She carried it to safety. She bandaged the wounds with the love she never got. She spoke to Wisdom, and she told her the truth of “I Am.” She ate healing like candy… sweet and slow, until it filled every hollow place in within her.
And now… She wakes every day with intention. She looks fear in the face. She sits in her own shadow and hold that little girl’s hand. She became the mother she needed. She became the husband she thought she had.
Because their children deserve someone to pray over them… not someone who performs religion, but someone who walks with God in bare feet, mud on their hem, and truth in their mouth.
They deserve more than a suit and pews. They deserve a faith that actually looks like Love. Not the kind preached from pulpits built by men and lies… but the kind built from ashes, mercy, and a woman who never gave up.