Y’ALL GOT BIBLES IN Y’ALL HANDS... BUT CAN’T HOLD PEOPLE

Let me say something that’s probably going to make people uncomfortable.

Good.

Maybe discomfort is finally what forces people to look in the mirror.

Because I’m tired.

Not sleepy tired.

Not “I need a vacation” tired.

I’m talking soul exhaustion.

The kind that happens when life has dragged you through fire for ten straight years and somehow people still expect you to be the one holding everybody else together while nobody notices your hands are burning.

And before y’all start:

“Yes, God got her.”

“Yes, Shantrael strong.”

“Yes, she gone rise.”

I KNOW.

That’s not the issue.

The issue is why are people so comfortable letting God do all the carrying while they do none of the helping?

That’s the issue.

Some of y’all got scriptures for every situation but no compassion attached to any of it.

And honestly?

That scares me more than anything.

Because what good is carrying sixteen versions of the Bible if your heart still lacks empathy, accountability, consistency, honesty, and love?

What good is posting “Good Morning” scriptures every day if God never actually told you to send it?

Did He really give you that message?

Or are you forwarding devotionals while ignoring the people around you literally fighting to breathe?

Because let me tell you something:

when somebody is painfully trying to survive grief, trauma, depression, heartbreak, abandonment, exhaustion, or loss… and you choose petty over presence?

Shame on you.

Yes.

I said it.

Shame on you.

Because too many people are committed to looking holy instead of being good humans.

And this might be Shantrael’s Revelation 101, but I do not believe quoting scripture is what gets us to heaven while you destroy people here on earth with neglect, silence, selfishness, dishonesty, avoidance, and performative love.

Being a GOOD HUMAN matters.

How are you reading about Jesus washing feet but you can’t even show up for people you claim to love?

How are you speaking in tongues but can’t speak accountability?

How are you lifting your hands in worship but won’t lift a finger to help somebody drowning?

How?

And don’t tell me people are “busy.”

We make time for what matters to us.

Period.

What devastates me the most is that it's not even strangers anymore.

It’s watching people I held close reveal how conditional their love really was.

Because some people love you when you are useful.

Some people love your light.

Some people love your wisdom.

Some people love your strength.

Some people love what you pour into them.

But the moment you become heavy?

The moment your grief becomes inconvenient?

The moment your truth makes them uncomfortable?

The moment your story starts sounding too close to their reflection?

Now suddenly people are “being careful with their words.”

Baby…

that’s not sisterhood.

That’s avoidance.

That’s emotional cowardice dressed up as maturity.

Because real relationships require uncomfortable conversations.

Real love requires honesty.

Real community requires showing up when things are ugly.

Not surface ugly.

Real ugly.

The kind of ugly where somebody is crying so hard they cannot breathe correctly.

The kind of ugly where grief physically changes your body.

The kind of ugly where trauma makes getting out of bed feel like climbing a mountain.

THAT is where real love shows up.

Not just at brunch.

Not just at birthdays.

Not just on girls trips.

Not just for selfies and celebrations and “you look good sis.”

No.

Real relationships are people wiping tears and snot from your face while reminding you to breathe.

Real relationships are people pulling up to your house because they know your silence is dangerous.

Real relationships are people figuring out the code to your door because they know you have emotionally disappeared and they refuse to let you drown alone.

That’s love.

Not these little surface-level performances people keep trying to package as community.

And flowers are beautiful.

Texts are nice.

Prayers matter.

But let me say this carefully:

Some of y’all would rather send gifts than be present because gifts require less vulnerability.

Presence costs something.

Presence requires emotional maturity.

Presence requires consistency.

Presence requires sacrifice.

Presence requires sacrifice of ego.

Presence requires people to sit in discomfort instead of running from it.

And too many people only know how to love people from a distance where they never have to actually carry any weight.

Meanwhile I have spent the last decade carrying weight that should have crushed me.

Mentally.

Spiritually.

Physically.

Financially.

Still showing up.

Still loving people.

Still helping people.

Still speaking life into people.

Still holding shields over people while my own world was collapsing behind me.

And let’s talk about giving.

Because when God told me to give, I gave.

Not because I had excess.

Not because life was easy.

Not because I was untouched by struggle.

I gave because God said so.

I gave love when I was empty.

I gave time when I was exhausted.

I gave grace when people didn’t deserve it.

I gave financially while trying to figure out my own survival.

I gave emotionally while privately unraveling.

I gave spiritually while my own faith was being tested by fire.

And what’s horrifying… bone-chilling really… is realizing how clenched the fists around me have been.

How many people consume from you but never pour back into you.

How many people can watch you bleeding and still keep their hands closed.

How many people will let you drown while convincing themselves they “prayed about it.”

That realization changes you.

Because when you are the person always pouring, always carrying, always covering, always checking in, always giving… and then life breaks YOU?

You finally get to see who was drinking from your cup without ever caring if it stayed full.

That kind of revelation will make your stomach hurt.

That kind of revelation will make you grieve people who are still alive.

Because some people only know how to receive love. They do not know how to return it.

And grief exposes that brutally.

The phoenix does not rise pretty.

It rises after everything fake burns off.

And maybe that’s why this season feels so violent.

Because while I’m grieving my son…

while I’m still fighting for my son…

while I’m reliving trauma connected to my son…

while I’m trying to survive realities that retraumatize me over and over again…

God is simultaneously revealing who actually has the capacity to love me correctly.

And if I’m honest?

That list hurts.

Because how can people share DNA with you and not share pain, empathy, gratitude, presence, or concern?

How do days turn into weeks?

Weeks turn into months?

Months turn into silence?

How?

How are you abundant while people directly connected to you are lacking emotionally, spiritually, mentally, or physically?

How do you claim family but only sow into your “favorites?” Because being strong means you're stable/ less deserving....

Stop.

Just… stop.

The world is already chaotic enough without people adding fake love to it.

And yes, I said fake.

Because if your version of love disappears the moment things become hard, heavy, inconvenient, uncomfortable, or emotionally demanding… then what exactly are we calling love?

Some people only know how to stand beside you when you are shining.

But God will let your life catch fire just to expose who can stand beside you while you burn.

And baby…

I’ve been burning.

Not a cute little inspirational fire either.

I’m talking about the kind of fire that changes your nervous system.

The kind of fire that changes your body.

The kind of fire that changes your mind.

The kind of fire that changes your sleep.

The kind of fire that changes your finances.

The kind of fire that changes your relationships.

The kind of fire that makes you question humanity.

The kind of fire that forces you to see people without the filters you created because you loved them too deeply.

And maybe that’s why I cannot stay silent anymore.

Because I understand the assignment.

I understand God is calling me higher.

I understand there is purpose attached to this pain.

I understand He showed me visions bigger than where I currently am.

But this “going through”?

This almost destroys you.

And the only reason I’m still standing is because God Himself is holding me together.

That’s it.

Not perfection.

Not strength.

Not people.

God.

And maybe that’s the revelation:

I don’t need to hold sixteen versions of the Bible in my hand if I’m not living any of it in my heart.

It’s the God in me.

Mic drop.

Because despite EVERYTHING…

despite disappointment…

despite abandonment…

despite grief…

despite betrayal…

despite loneliness…

despite the fire…

I still know how to love people.

I still know how to show up.

I still know how to care.

I still know how to protect.

I still know how to give grace without becoming fake.

And that?

That is God.

That is anointing.

That is survival.

So yes…

the phoenix is still on fire.

But maybe God trusted me with the fire because He already knew I was built to rise from it.

.............................

And maybe that’s the part that’s haunting me the most.

Not just the grief.

Not just the trauma.

Not just the exhaustion of fighting for a son I can no longer physically hold while still carrying the responsibility of loving, protecting, advocating, explaining, surviving, and reliving pieces of him every single day.

It’s the realization that some people benefited from my heart while never truly protecting it.

That’s the grief inside the grief.

Because people loved my wisdom.

But not my wounds.

People loved my strength.

But disappeared when I became human.

People loved my prayers.

But could not handle my pain.

People loved what I poured.

But became uncomfortable the moment I needed pouring too.

And THAT is the part the fire exposed.

Not just who people pretended to be.

Who they actually are when life stops being convenient.

Because it is easy to love people when they are inspirational.

It is easy to love people when they are useful.

It is easy to love people when they are smiling, hosting, pouring, fixing, carrying, helping, praying, leading, showing up, and making everybody else feel safe.

But what about when THEY are falling apart?

What about when the strong friend cannot hold herself up anymore?

What about when the person everybody leans on finally says: “I am not okay.”

Who shows up then?

Who stays then?

Who sacrifices then?

Who becomes uncomfortable enough to actually LOVE people instead of performing concern?

That’s what this fire taught me.

Because grief made me spiritually allergic to fake love.

I can feel surface now.

I can feel avoidance now.

I can feel when people are responding out of obligation instead of genuine care.

And once you survive the kind of devastation that alters you mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, and financially… fake love starts feeling violent.

Not disappointing.

Violent.

Because you realize people watched you bleed and still protected their comfort over your survival.

That realization changes you.

It changes how you love. It changes how you move. It changes how safe people feel to you. It changes how much access people get to your heart.

And maybe that’s what God has been trying to teach me in this fire: discernment.

Not bitterness.

Discernment.

Because I don’t hate people.

I just see clearly now.

I see who only loved the parts of me that benefited them.

I see who loved access to my anointing but never intended to help carry the weight attached to it.

I see who loved proximity to my light but disappeared the moment my life stopped looking easy to stand beside.

And maybe grief HAD to burn the performance out of me.

Maybe God was tired of me shrinking my discernment just to keep people comfortable.

Maybe God was tired of me overextending grace to people who had no intention of loving me correctly.

Maybe the fire was never sent to destroy me.

Maybe it came to reveal everything around me that could not go where God is taking me.

Because one thing about fire: it tells the truth.

And the truth is…

Some people know how to consume love. But they do not know how to return it.

Some people know how to reap. But not sow.

Some people know how to call you family. But not show up like family.

Some people know how to quote God. But not embody Him.

And I know that statement will make people uncomfortable.

Good.

Because maybe we SHOULD be uncomfortable.

Maybe we SHOULD sit with the reality that people are mentally drowning while we hide behind devotionals.

Maybe we SHOULD sit with the reality that people are spiritually exhausted while we keep forwarding recycled “God is good” messages instead of actually asking God: “Who needs me today?”

Maybe we SHOULD sit with the reality that some people are physically carrying pain that has altered their bodies while we scroll past them pretending not to notice.

Maybe we SHOULD sit with the reality that people are financially struggling silently while those with abundance keep their fists clenched shut.

Maybe we SHOULD sit with the reality that some people are emotionally starving while surrounded by people claiming to love them.

Because this world is starving for REAL humanity.

Not performance. Not aesthetics. Not curated Christianity. Not fake community.

Real humanity.

Real presence. Real accountability. Real sacrifice. Real consistency. Real love.

And I think what devastates me most is realizing how rare that actually is.

Because I would have moved mountains for people who would not cross puddles for me.

I would have emptied myself for people who rationed basic compassion toward me.

I would have sat in the fire with people who left me burning alone.

And yet…

Despite all of this…

I am still here.

Still loving. Still feeling. Still soft enough to cry. Still human enough to care. Still open enough for God to use me.

THAT is the miracle.

Because cruel would be easier.

Numb would be easier. Cold would be easier. Detached would be easier. Selfish would be easier.

But somehow after all this devastation… after all this disappointment… after all this abandonment… after all this retraumatization…

My heart still reaches toward love.

That’s God.

Not perfection.

God.

Because the phoenix does not rise AFTER the fire.

It rises IN it.

While burning. While shedding. While grieving. While shaking. While exhausted. While trying to understand why survival costs so much.

And maybe that’s my real testimony.

Not that I survived.

But that the fire did not make me lose my ability to love.

Even now.

Even here.

Even after seeing people clearly.

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ST~ Hope Dealer