My People

Three years ago, a friend posted this picture with a simple caption:

“My people….”

At the time, I smiled, loved the post, and kept scrolling.

Today, I can't read those two words without getting choked up, because they mean so much more now than they did then.

When I look at this picture, I don't just see four smiling faces.

I see prayers whispered through tears.

I see conversations that lasted for hours because one more person needed to know they weren't alone.

I see laughter breaking through grief when we weren't sure we'd ever laugh again.

I see women who chose to stay.

Not because they had all the answers, but because they were willing to simply be there.

“My people.”

Sometimes two words tell an entire story.

Not the people who only knew the finished version of me. The people who sat with me in the middle of the unraveling.

The ones who prayed when I couldn't.

The ones who listened without trying to fix me.

The ones who celebrated every tiny step toward healing.

My friend who posted this is in heaven now. I can't look at her smile without feeling both gratitude and longing. What a gift it was to share this season of life with her. What a gift it still is to know that because of Jesus, goodbye was never the end of her story.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that one of God's greatest gifts isn't the absence of suffering. It's the people He sends to walk through it with us.

Friends who remind you who you are when you've forgotten.

Friends who carry your faith when yours feels too weak.

Friends who quietly point you back to Jesus over and over again.

Looking at this picture now, I don't just see a memory. I see God's fingerprints. 

He knew I couldn't carry my story alone.

So He gave me...

“My people.” ❤️