I'm a Christian, and I don't know why I'm still here. Not in a dramatic way. Just honest. I've prayed prayers that felt like they hit the ceiling and bounced back. I've begged for answers that never came. I've sat in silence so long I forgot what His voice sounded like. And yet—I'm still here. Still believing. Still whispering His name even when it feels like no one's listening. I don't have a testimony about miraculous healing or dramatic deliverance. I have a testimony about still being here. About not walking away even when walking away made more sense. About choosing to believe when belief felt like a gamble I was losing. I'm a Christian, but I don't know how to pray anymore. Not the right way. Not the long way. Not the way that sounds like the people on stage. Most days my prayers are one word: help. Some days they're just silence. Some days they're tears before I even open my mouth. But I'm learning that maybe prayer isn't about getting the words right. Maybe it's about showing up. Empty-handed. Honest. Still reaching. I'm a Christian, but I don't recognize the version of faith I see online. The judgment. The outrage. The certainty about things Scripture never even mentions. The way we talk about love but act like hate is holiness when it's aimed at the right people. I don't want that kind of faith. I want the kind that weeps with those who weep. The kind that sits in the dark with you instead of throwing Bible verses from a distance. The kind that admits it doesn't have all the answers—but knows the One who does. I'm a Christian, but I'm not who you think I am. I'm not a politician. I'm not a culture warrior. I'm not here to win arguments or prove I'm right. I'm just someone who met Jesus in the mess and couldn't walk away. Someone who still struggles, still doubts, still fails—but keeps coming back because He never left. If that's not enough for you? I understand. But it's the only version of faith I have. And somehow, it's the only 1 he ask 4