HAVE YOU EVER?

Have you ever been sad—and thought about Jesus? Not as an idea, not as a doctrine to be defended, but as a Person who knows sorrow from the inside out.

Have you ever written Him a love letter—not polished, not eloquent, just honest; ink stained with gratitude and need?

Have you ever spoken to Him the way you would your closest friend—no religious varnish, no careful phrases—just truth, spoken plainly, knowing He listens?

Have you ever shared a quiet moment with Him, where nothing spectacular happened, yet everything felt held?

Have you ever listened to Martin Luther King Jr.’s I’ve Been to the Mountaintop speech—given the night before he died—and felt the weight of courage pressed into words?

Have you ever read Letter from a Birmingham Jail and sensed the moral gravity of a conscience captive to truth?

Have you ever watched It’s a Wonderful Life and realized that redemption often hides in the ordinary, that a single life—faithful and unseen and persevering—can ripple farther than it ever knows?

And then—have you ever noticed how all these moments, so different on the surface, seem to express the same deeper longing?

Justice.

Meaning.

Love that costs something.

Hope that refuses to die.

They point, quietly but persistently, toward Christ—the Man of Sorrows who still walks with the brokenhearted (Isaiah 53:3), the Friend who draws near and does not let go (John 15:15), the Light that shines even when the night feels long (John 1:5).

Here are a few more moments that belong in this same family of longing—things you might recognize, things that fit the grain of the soul:

• Reading Ecclesiastes late at night and realizing someone else has already named the emptiness (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

• Hearing a hymn sung slowly—no instruments—and feeling truth settle deeper than argument ever could (Colossians 3:16).

• Standing at a graveside and sensing that death is real, but not final (1 Corinthians 15:26).

• Watching an old black-and-white film where sacrifice quietly wins the day.

• Reading a line of poetry that feels like it knows you better than most people do.

• Sitting alone in a church sanctuary when no one else is there.

• Listening to Johnny Cash sing about sin, grace, and mercy—with no pretense left.

• Reading the Sermon on the Mount and realizing Jesus is not offering advice, but a new way to be human (Matthew 5:1-12).

• Watching forgiveness happen where it should not be possible (Matthew 18:21-22).

• Reading the Gospels slowly, and noticing how often Jesus stops for the overlooked (Mark 10:46-52).

• Feeling the weight lift when you finally tell Him the truth about yourself (1 John 1:7).

Have you ever noticed that Christ seems to meet us most often not in spectacle, but in recognition—in those moments when the heart whispers, This matters?

He is there in the sadness, the courage, the quiet films, the jailhouse letters, the late-night prayers; present, patient, personal.

Not distant.

Not abstract.

Near.

BDD