Tessa’s breath fanned through the cracked windowpane, painting tiny clouds on the cold glass as she stared out over the sleeping fields. The wind howled, scattering dry leaves like exiled memories. Somewhere deep in the hollow of her soul, loneliness gnawed—a quiet ache she hadn’t been able to pray away.
They said the end was near. Wars, rumors of wars, disasters roaring louder each year like the gathering of some unseen storm. Fear had rooted itself into every news report, every whispered conversation in church hallways. Tessa’s heart trembled beneath the weight of it all, overwhelmed by the sense that the world was collapsing beneath her feet — and she was slipping through the cracks.
"God, where are You in all this?" she whispered into the night, voice trembling.
The only answer was the restless sigh of the wind.
Days passed in a heavy, gray blur. Tessa’s routine became a litany of small survivals — pray, work, try to believe. On a particularly cold afternoon, she bundled herself in an oversized coat and wandered to the overgrown lot behind the old church, a place she'd once loved as a child. The bare branches of the trees clawed at the sky, stark and skeletal.
But there — among the tangled weeds and forgotten gravestones — she saw it.
A single crocus, violet and golden, pushing audaciously through the frostbitten ground.
Tessa knelt, stunned. Her glove brushed the delicate petals and a laugh, small and surprised, slipped from her lips. It felt almost sacrilegious to see something so lovely, so alive, here at the edge of everything.
"Still fighting," she whispered.
A warmth — fierce, certain — bloomed in her chest. Somehow, she knew: She was not forgotten. Not abandoned. The world might shake and totter, but its Creator had not left His post. Christ's return was not a threat to dread, but a glorious promise to anchor their hope.
Tears welled up, not in sorrow this time, but in wonder.
Tessa sat back on her heels and closed her eyes, feeling the sharp kiss of the winter air on her cheeks. She thought of the early Christians, how they had clung to the hope of His return through persecution, plagues, and sorrow. She thought of Paul's words to the Thessalonians about not grieving like those without hope — that the dead in Christ would rise, that they would meet the Lord in the air. That He was coming to make all things new.
And for a heartbeat — maybe longer — Tessa felt eternity brush against her spirit. Felt arms unseen wrap around her quivering soul and steady it.
That night, she returned home with a candle she’d bought forever ago but never lit. She placed it near her window and touched the wick to the tiny flame.
A small light in the darkness.
Every night after, Tessa lit her candle, a quiet act of rebellion against despair. She prayed, not with the desperation of one abandoned, but with the assurance of a beloved daughter awaiting her King.
She smiled more. Sang aloud again when no one else was around. When grief visited, as it still sometimes did, she let it sit beside her in the flickering light — but she did not hand it the keys to her heart.
Tessa did not know the hour or the day. But she knew what mattered.
Love had already won.
Bible Verses:
Tessa’s breath fanned through the cracked windowpane, painting tiny clouds on the cold glass as she stared out over the sleeping fields. The wind howled, scattering dry leaves like exiled memories. Somewhere deep in the hollow of her soul, loneliness gnawed—a quiet ache she hadn’t been able to pray away.
They said the end was near. Wars, rumors of wars, disasters roaring louder each year like the gathering of some unseen storm. Fear had rooted itself into every news report, every whispered conversation in church hallways. Tessa’s heart trembled beneath the weight of it all, overwhelmed by the sense that the world was collapsing beneath her feet — and she was slipping through the cracks.
"God, where are You in all this?" she whispered into the night, voice trembling.
The only answer was the restless sigh of the wind.
Days passed in a heavy, gray blur. Tessa’s routine became a litany of small survivals — pray, work, try to believe. On a particularly cold afternoon, she bundled herself in an oversized coat and wandered to the overgrown lot behind the old church, a place she'd once loved as a child. The bare branches of the trees clawed at the sky, stark and skeletal.
But there — among the tangled weeds and forgotten gravestones — she saw it.
A single crocus, violet and golden, pushing audaciously through the frostbitten ground.
Tessa knelt, stunned. Her glove brushed the delicate petals and a laugh, small and surprised, slipped from her lips. It felt almost sacrilegious to see something so lovely, so alive, here at the edge of everything.
"Still fighting," she whispered.
A warmth — fierce, certain — bloomed in her chest. Somehow, she knew: She was not forgotten. Not abandoned. The world might shake and totter, but its Creator had not left His post. Christ's return was not a threat to dread, but a glorious promise to anchor their hope.
Tears welled up, not in sorrow this time, but in wonder.
Tessa sat back on her heels and closed her eyes, feeling the sharp kiss of the winter air on her cheeks. She thought of the early Christians, how they had clung to the hope of His return through persecution, plagues, and sorrow. She thought of Paul's words to the Thessalonians about not grieving like those without hope — that the dead in Christ would rise, that they would meet the Lord in the air. That He was coming to make all things new.
And for a heartbeat — maybe longer — Tessa felt eternity brush against her spirit. Felt arms unseen wrap around her quivering soul and steady it.
That night, she returned home with a candle she’d bought forever ago but never lit. She placed it near her window and touched the wick to the tiny flame.
A small light in the darkness.
Every night after, Tessa lit her candle, a quiet act of rebellion against despair. She prayed, not with the desperation of one abandoned, but with the assurance of a beloved daughter awaiting her King.
She smiled more. Sang aloud again when no one else was around. When grief visited, as it still sometimes did, she let it sit beside her in the flickering light — but she did not hand it the keys to her heart.
Tessa did not know the hour or the day. But she knew what mattered.
Love had already won.
Bible Verses:
