There’s a quiet beauty in a prayer whispered by a child—a faith untainted by doubt, a belief that even the smallest voice will reach heaven. I was that child once, whispering secrets to the sky, believing God would listen. Yet, for years, it felt like those prayers floated into the vastness, unanswered. But God hears whispers too. I still remember the ache of wondering if I could ever truly belong. Camps in the big city were always bittersweet. While others laughed over shared jokes and lives, I clung to my book—alone in a crowd. My whispered prayer was simple: Lord, don’t forget to give me a tribe of my own. And then, I think of another prayer, spoken through tears: “If I’m not saved now, I don’t know.” Conviction weighed heavy on me, yet assurance felt so far away. I wrestled with whether this God I read about truly wanted me. Love, in those days, felt like a distant story sprinkled through the Bible and strung together by Sunday school lessons. Life moved forward, and with it came d...