If Everything Was Perfect

If everything were perfect, there'd be no cracks for light to enter, no ache deep enough to press our palms together, no silence heavy enough to carry a name like prayer. We wouldn't bleed, so we'd never call out for healing. We wouldn't hunger, so we'd never search the table. We wouldn't lose, so we'd never learn how to be found. Our lives would be smooth. Shiny. Sealed. Untouched by grief— but also untouched by grace. What is mercy to someone who's never needed it? What is a Savior to someone who's never drowned? We would build altars to ourselves. Crown our own heads. Forget the ache of being rescued because we'd never know the cost of falling. But the world is not whole. And neither are we. We are born into fracture. We break— in body, in heart, in belief. And it is there, in the soft collapse, where the map ends and the longing begins, that God enters. Not to fix— but to stay. To become the stillness inside the storm. The hand that holds when nothing else does. If everything were perfect, we'd never look up. Never dig through ashes for light. But it is in the ruin we remember Him. It is in the wreckage He does His best work. And in the lowest place, where even hope forgets your name— you'll hear Him say: I've been here all along.