There are seasons where even the strong lose their words.
Where faith feels like lifting stones with bare hands, and prayers sound more like sighs than songs.
You look around and the path that once bloomed now bleeds dust.
The oil feels dry,
the heart feels tired,
and heaven… feels silent.
But somewhere in that silence,
God is still speaking.
Not in thunder. Not in visions.
But through the very rock that resists you.
Because sometimes, the same rock that bruises you is the one carrying your honey.
The same pain that threatened to break you is holding your sweetness hostage.
And He whispers —
“I will bring honey out of the rock for you.”
(Psalm 81:16)
Because when God says “out of the rock,”
He’s not just talking about sweetness —
He’s talking about strength that tastes like rest, hope that drips slowly, joy that takes its time returning.
You see, the rock doesn’t change; you do.
The weight of the wait reshapes you.
THE WILDERNESS TRAINS YOUR HEARING.
The dry place becomes the altar where you remember that manna doesn’t fall from crowds, it falls from clouds.
It’s not just about survival anymore.
It’s about seeing God in what didn’t move.
Finding beauty where the ashes still lie warm.
And realizing that sometimes, miracles don’t always show up as open doors —
sometimes they come as closed ones that teach you how to kneel.
Maybe this is that season.
The one where you don’t even need answers, just presence.
The one where you stop begging the rock to move and start asking it to yield honey.
And maybe that’s the miracle after all.
Not that the rock disappeared, but that it became a well.
So when your hands are weak
and your prayers tremble through cracked lips, still whispers,
“Lord, bring honey out of the rock for me.”
Not later. Not somewhere else.
But right here,
in this same hard thing,
this same silence,
this same breaking place.
Because He can.
And He will.
He always does.
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