Dear Father, You said,“Blessed is the one You discipline.” So here I am, beneath the weight of Your love that wounds before it heals. I do not run anymore. I sit. I tremble. I let You search my heart. Because if pain is the tool You use to purify, then let the ache do its work. If loss is the language You speak to realign my life, then teach me how to listen without bitterness. I used to think that discipline meant punishment. But now, I wonder— Is this not also protection? Is this not also preparation? You are not cruel, even when I don't understand You. You are not silent, even when I cannot hear You. You are not absent, even when I feel alone. You are refining me— Like silver that screams in the fire but comes out reflecting the sun. You healed Job. You restored what was torn. You rebuked the friends who misrepresented You— but You did not ignore the truths whispered in their flawed advice. So maybe, God, even the voices that hurt me are tools in Your hands. Maybe the grief is not the end, but the garden You are tilling for something yet unseen. Teach me not to despise Your discipline. Teach me to see it not as punishment—but as proof of Your affection. Break me only to rebuild me stronger. Wound me only to heal me deeper. Silence me only to awaken something more eternal. I trust You—even when it hurts. With trembling love, Amen