MyCenterofWealth

Dear Me,

I need to be honest with you today. I am trying to be mature about this and rise above it. I know that everything happens for a reason, that God knows best and that what is mine will not miss me. But the truth is, I wonder could the story have been different if someone spoke for me.

Today it hurts differently. Not just because of what happened, but knowing someone could have spoken to turn the narrative but stayed silent. That hurts in a way I have no words for. Someone could have spoken. They knew the truth. They saw the situation. They understood what was at stake. They knew what their voice could have done in that moment.

One word.
One correction.
One honest sentence.
One simple, “That is not how it happened.”

Maybe that would have changed everything. Maybe the outcome would have been  different. Maybe I would not have lost that privilege. Maybe my name would not have been left out. Maybe the door would not have closed. Maybe I would not be sitting here trying to make peace with a loss that could have been avoided. And that is the part that keeps replaying in my mind. Not just what I lost, but the possibility that I may not have needed to lose it.

I kept thinking about the room I was not in, the conversation I could not control. The access I did not have and the person who had access but chose silence. hmmm…that kind of silence is loud. It makes you question things. It makes you wonder whether you mattered. It makes you ask yourself, “Did they forget me? Or did they remember and still decide not to speak?”

I do not know which one hurts more – the lost or the silence. Or I was just looking for an object to hang my hurts on.  And I keep thinking, if it were me, would I have spoken? Because to be honest, I truly don’t know if I would have spoken for myself if I was in their shoes. Maybe that is why this pain feels personal. It is not only about the privilege. It is about trust. It is about disappointment.

Dear Me, thank you for nudging me to think of Joseph. I think of him in prison, after all he had already been through. Betrayed by his brothers. Sold away from home. Falsely accused. Punished for something he did not do. Then, in prison, he helped the butler. He interpreted his dream. He gave him hope. And when the butler was about to return to Pharaoh’s palace, Joseph allowed himself to ask for help. He said, “Remember me when it is well with you. Speak to Pharaoh for me.”

That request feels so human. So vulnerable. So tired.

Joseph was not asking for too much. He was simply saying, “When you get back into the room I cannot enter, please mention my name.” I understand that now. I understand what it feels like to hope that someone with access will not forget you. And I wonder how Joseph felt when the days started passing.

Maybe the first day, he told himself, “He is just settling in.” Maybe after a week, he thought, “Surely, he will mention me soon.” Maybe after a month, he still listened for footsteps, hoping someone had come from Pharaoh. But nobody came. No message. No invitation. No release. No one calling his name. Just prison walls and silence.

And I wonder if Joseph sat with the same questions I am sitting with.

“What if he had spoken?”
“What if he remembered me?”
“What if my life could have changed earlier?”
“What if one conversation was all it would have taken?”

That is the frustration. Knowing that someone’s voice may have made a difference. Knowing that their silence may have cost you time, peace, access, and opportunity. Knowing that someone else’s voice could have influence your outcome.

I do not want to be bitter. But I need to admit that I am disappointed. I need to admit that I feel the sting of being forgotten. I need to admit that I am grieving the version of the story that may have happened if they had spoken.

But as I sit with this, I hear another truth rising quietly. The butler forgot Joseph, but God did not. The person who could have spoken may have stayed silent, but God was not silent forever. The door did not open when Joseph wanted it to open, but when it finally opened, it did not open small. Joseph was not just released from prison. He was brought before Pharaoh. He was not merely remembered as someone who needed help. He was revealed as someone carrying an answer.

Maybe this is what I must hold on to. Maybe the Lord is not ignoring me. Maybe He is not late. Maybe He is waiting to be kind to me. Isaiah 30:18 says, “Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you; therefore, He will rise up to show mercy to you.”

The Lord waits. That is hard to understand when I am the one waiting. But maybe His waiting is not absence. Maybe His waiting is preparation. Maybe His waiting is mercy gathering weight. Maybe His waiting is goodness choosing the right moment. Maybe He did not allow my life to depend on anyone. Maybe He is teaching me that people can be channels, but they are not my source. Maybe He is showing me that one person’s silence cannot cancel what He has spoken over me.

Maybe what I lost was painful, but not final. Maybe the privilege I missed is not greater than the mercy God is preparing. Maybe the door that closed is not the only door. Maybe the room that forgot me is not the room that will announce me.

Dear Me, remind me of this when my heart starts replaying the silence. Remind me that I can grieve without becoming bitter. Remind me that I can feel disappointed without losing faith. Remind me that I can acknowledge what their silence cost me without giving them ownership over my future. Remind me that God is still good, even when people are not brave. Remind me that God is still working, even when people forget. Remind me that the Lord waits to be gracious, and when He rises, mercy will speak louder than the silence that broke my heart.

I do not want to live trapped in the “what if.” What if they had spoken? What if the outcome had changed? What if I had not lost that chance? Those questions may be real, but I refuse to let them be my anchor.

I will hold on to this anchor:

God is with me.
God is for me.
God heard me.
God knows what happened.
God knows what I lost.
God knows me.
And God is working all things for my good.

So today, I release the need to understand what happened or did not happen or could have happened. I release the pain of my expectation, and I choose to believe that God’s goodness is still rising. I choose to believe that the Lord is waiting to be kind to me. I choose to believe that when mercy stands up, no silence can remain louder than God’s voice. And like Joseph, I may have waited longer than I wanted. But I will not be forgotten.

My name will rise again.
My gift will speak.
My time will come.

And when God opens the door, I will understand that the delay did not destroy me. It prepared the stage for His goodness.

With honesty, hope, and trembling faith,
Me