Come Home, Daughter
- Alexis Walker
- Jun 17
- 3 min read
What if you came home, not as a servant, but as a daughter?
I’ve been carrying this for months now, waking up with it echoing in my spirit, playing on repeat. It holds a deep weight, not only for me, but I often picture Ellie, finally home with the Father, and the joy that must have radiated from them both in that moment.
I’ve always been good at working. High-capacity, driven, structured, my days thrive on routine and productivity. But resting? Stillness? I think that's where many of us struggle. It’s often easier for us to acknowledge God as Lord, Sovereign, almighty, in control.
But when Scripture calls Him Father, something in us hesitates. There's a disconnect.
I grew up believing the goal was to perform: do well in school, succeed in your career, work hard until retirement, and then you get to enjoy life. Without realizing it, I carried that same mindset into my relationship with Jesus. I believed I had to earn His love. That His delight in me was tied to my productivity and spiritual performance.
The danger in this belief may seem subtle but it can be devastating. When tragedy hits, you wonder if you somehow deserved it. Maybe I didn’t pray long enough. Maybe I didn’t work hard enough. Maybe if I had made Him prouder, He would’ve saved her.
But that’s not who He is.
Yes, He is sovereign. Yes, nothing touches us that hasn’t first passed through His hands. But He is also a good Father, compassionate, attentive, and near. He does not sit by in silence as we walk through sorrow. That’s not what a Father does.
Grief has a way of shaking everything that once felt certain. In those early moments, it’s not uncommon to question the goodness of God. Sometimes, what we need most is simply the space to say:
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m struggling to believe.”
“Is this life of faith even worth it?”
When God intends to use your life to lift others, He often leads you through the valley first, where the pain is real, the questions are raw, and dependence on Him is forged.
It’s in the low places that the deepest wells of compassion and mercy are formed.
It’s been my deepest pain that has led us, trembling and undone, into the arms and at the feet of Jesus. Not because we were worthy, not because we got it right, but solely because of who He is: faithful, near, and unfailing in love.
It is the surrendered life, costly, yet freely offered, that becomes worship. It is the tears, poured out night after night, that rise as a fragrant offering before Him.
And this battle? It’s not just for us. The victory will echo through generations.
Walking through grief has meant learning to live in a sacred tension, the kind that doesn’t always resolve with answers, but calls for deeper trust. He is worthy if He does… and He is still worthy if He doesn’t.
That kind of faith isn’t neat or easy. It’s forged in the fire of disappointment, in the prayers that went unanswered the way we hoped, in the ache of “Why didn’t you stop this?” echoing in the silence. And yet, somehow, even there… we find Him.
Grief has taught me that true worship isn’t built on outcomes. We don’t worship healing, restoration, or rescue.
We worship the One who holds all things, even when His ways break our hearts.
There’s a kind of healing that looks like resurrection, and sometimes, there’s a healing that looks like being held while we weep. Both are holy. One we celebrate. The other we endure. But both are still proof that He is Emmanuel, God with us.
The surrendered life is costly. It’s not just laid down once, it’s surrendered again and again in the tension between hope and heartbreak. Yet somehow, the tears we shed in that space become a fragrance of worship. A declaration that says: You are still good. You are still God. And You are still worthy.
This is where grief becomes worship, not because we understand, but because we choose to trust anyway. Not because the outcome was what we prayed for, but because He remains the same.
This is very powerful. So good!