You Have Not Been Forgotten

A quick note before today's letter:

Dear Sister,

Before we begin today's letter, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the prayers, encouragement, and kind messages you sent after last week's note about my mom. I read every one of them, and they reminded me once again that this little Saturday community is so much more than an email list. We are carrying one another through life's difficult seasons.

By the time you read this, Mom will be home from the hospital, and I am deeply grateful for that answer to prayer. She still has a road ahead of her and will undergo another procedure in August, so I would be grateful if you would continue to keep her in your prayers as we walk through this next step together.

Thank you for praying. Thank you for caring. And thank you for allowing me to share not only what God is teaching me, but also the real life we are living together. Your kindness has been a gift to our family.

Now, let's settle in together.

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Dear Sister,

Have you ever gone through a season when heaven felt quiet?

Not because you had stopped praying. In fact, you may have been praying more than ever.

You asked for wisdom, but the direction never came.

You prayed for a door to open, but every door stayed closed.

You searched for some sign that God still saw you, and all you could hear was the silence.

If you have ever wondered whether He still sees you, today's letter is for you.

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There is a detail in the story of Isaiah 49 that I missed for years.

I had read the verse before. Most women in church have read it before.

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast? Though she may forget, I will not forget you."

— Isaiah 49:15

It is the mother verse. The verse that is framed and hung in nurseries. The verse given to women who have lost children. The verse meant to comfort the woman who is not sure God still sees her.

It is also where most people stop reading.

But the next line is the one that changed me.

It found me the morning after a night I spent crying on the floor of my closet.

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Let me tell you how I got there.

There was a night, deep in my rebuild, when I sat on the floor of my closet and cried because I could not hear God anymore.

I had been praying for clarity for months.

I had been begging Him to show me which door to walk through, which direction to move, what to do next.

And every door I tried to open was locked.

I was alone. I was tired. I was running out of money.

And I sat on that floor and asked Him out loud whether He was even still there.

He did not answer with a voice. He never has.

But when I got up off that floor, my phone rang.

It was my granddaughter.

And before I knew it, I was smiling.

God knew what I needed in that moment. Not a sermon. Not a sign in the sky. The sound of my granddaughter's voice.

He pays attention to the details. He knows what we need better than we do.

In that moment, I needed to hear her voice. And in that moment, I could feel His presence.

Then the next morning, in my daily devotion, the scripture was waiting for me. Isaiah 49.

The confirmation that He had heard me. That He had been there all along.

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Maybe you know that whisper.

Not because anyone spoke it over you.

Because after enough unanswered prayers, it begins to sound like your own thoughts.

He has forgotten you.

It dresses up as honest reckoning. As the conclusion you are finally brave enough to draw. As what the silence has been telling you all along.

It tells you that the unanswered prayer is proof.

That the closed doors are evidence.

That the women you watch online whose prayers seem to land are loved by Him differently than you are.

That you must have done something to disqualify yourself.

That He is busy. That He is silent. That He has moved on.

It is the loudest lie, and it is still a lie.

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Here is what is true.

You have not been forgotten.

You cannot be.

The silence is not abandonment. The closed doors are not evidence of His back turned. The waiting is not because He has gotten busy with someone else.

The God who knew your name before your mother knew your face has not lost track of you.

I do not pretend to know why God is silent in every season.

Sometimes He is shaping us.

Sometimes He is protecting us.

Sometimes He is preparing what we cannot yet see.

But I have learned this:

His silence has never meant His absence.

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What if the silence is not absence?

What if the waiting is not punishment?

What if He has been beside you, all this time, holding the lamp for the next foot of road, and the reason you have not heard Him is because He has been that close?

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Here is the line I had missed.

The line that comes right after the mother verse.

The line that was waiting for me the morning after.

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands."

— Isaiah 49:16

Read it out loud.

Engraved.

On the palms.

Of His hands.

A tattoo cannot be removed. A nail mark cannot be erased.

The Lord did not say He remembers you. He said you are written on the palm He uses to do everything.

You are written on the hand that hung the stars.

The hand that calmed the sea.

The hand that was pierced for you.

You are not forgotten.

You are inscribed.

Think about that for a moment.

We write reminders because we forget.

God does not.

He did not engrave your name so He would remember you.

He engraved your name so you would remember whose you are.

‍ ‍Listen: "Engraved On His Hands" 🎵 https://suno.com/s/WldDpSwTsx07LYVz

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You have not been forgotten.

You have not been overlooked.

You are engraved on the hands of the One who holds the universe.

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Tonight, before you sleep, say one sentence out loud.

"I have not been forgotten. I am engraved on His hands."

Say it slowly. Mean it.

Then go to sleep knowing that the silence is not absence, and the waiting is not abandonment, and the woman who feels alone in the dark is held by hands that will not let her go.

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Before I close, I want to tell you one more thing.

This is a season. It is not the rest of your story.

Seasons end. This one will end too.

And here is the beautiful part. It will not announce itself.

There will be no trumpet. No finish line. No banner across the calendar.

One ordinary day you will be pouring your coffee or driving home, and it will land on you softly: you have not cried in a while.

You will realize you slept through the night.

You will realize that the heaviness you carried into every morning is not there anymore, and you cannot name the day it left.

You will realize you have peace.

That day is coming for you. It arrives quietly, the same way spring does.

And when it comes, you will look back and see that He was carrying you through the whole winter.

There is still a chapter you have not read.

God is already there.

The Author of your story has not misplaced a single page.

And He has certainly not forgotten the woman He is still writing.

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Walking with you,

Your sister in the rebuild,

Kimberly

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P.S. After the Ashes launches in six days, this Friday, July 24. If you have not yet joined the launch list, you can do that on the homepage. I will send the Amazon link the morning of launch. Make sure you are on the list.

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