“If Only…” When Doubt Speaks Louder Than Faith but God Still Shows Up
As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. This page contains affiliate links. If you choose to make a purchase after clicking a link, I may receive a commission at no extra cost to you.
Visit our Holy Spirit Gear Store- - - - - ->>> HERE <<< - - - - - - New items Weekly
I’ve said it more than once in my life—“If only.”
If only God had answered my prayer sooner.
If only I had made a different decision.
If only He had stopped the pain.
If only I could understand what He’s doing.
Those words carry so much weight. They’re heavy with regret, confusion, longing, and sometimes even anger. But as I began to search the Bible, I realized something that stopped me in my tracks: I’m not the only one who’s ever spoken those words to God. In fact, some of the most faith-filled people in the Bible have echoed the very same cry.
Take Martha and Mary. Their brother Lazarus was sick, and they did the right thing—they sent for Jesus. They knew He could heal. They had faith. But when Jesus didn’t come right away, and Lazarus died, their grief poured out in familiar words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21, 32).
There it is again. “If only.”
I imagine the heartbreak in their voices. They had watched their brother suffer. They had prayed, hoped, waited. And nothing. Silence. Delay. Death.
I’ve been there too—waiting for Jesus to show up and wondering why He’s taking so long. But what stirs me about this story is that Jesus knew. He knew Lazarus had died. He knew what He was going to do. And still… He wept. He didn’t scold their doubt. He didn’t rebuke their “if only.” He stood with them in the grief and cried with them (John 11:35).
Then He did something only He could do. He spoke into the darkness of the tomb and called Lazarus back to life. Their deepest moment of despair became the very stage for a miracle.
That moment reshaped my understanding of delay. God’s timing doesn’t always align with mine. Sometimes, the wait feels like abandonment. But often, it’s preparation. When I say “if only,” He’s already preparing the resurrection. What I thought was the end becomes the beginning of something greater.
But Lazarus wasn’t the only “if only” in Scripture.
Long before that, the Israelites had their own moment in the desert. After escaping slavery in Egypt with signs and wonders—plagues, parting seas, pillars of fire—they hit a moment of hunger. And just like that, they forgot the miracles. “If only we had died by the Lord’s hand in Egypt!” they cried in Exodus 16:3. Can you believe that? After all God had done, they looked back and thought bondage was better than dependence.
I understand that too. It’s easy to trust God when He’s parting seas. It’s harder when I’m standing in a dry desert with no idea where the next provision is coming from. They hadn’t yet tasted manna. They hadn’t seen water spring from a rock. They didn’t know that shoes wouldn’t wear out for 40 years. They just saw lack, not promise.
And so do I sometimes. In the middle of wilderness seasons, I find myself longing for the familiar, even if it was harmful. It feels safer than the unknown. But God doesn’t deliver us just to leave us hanging. He brings us out to bring us in. Every step of the wilderness is marked by His presence—even if I can’t see it yet.
There’s another “if only” that struck me deeply—the cry of a woman who had suffered for twelve long years. She was unclean, unseen, and unwanted. But in the crowd pressing in on Jesus, she whispered her own version of hope: “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed” (Mark 5:28).
This time, the “if only” wasn’t filled with doubt. It was saturated with desperate faith.
She didn’t need a sermon. She didn’t need an appointment. She just needed to reach Him. And the moment she touched the hem of His robe, power went out from Him. Healing was immediate. Jesus didn’t let her slip away unnoticed, either. He stopped everything to find her. “Daughter,” He said—speaking identity into someone who had been rejected for years—“your faith has healed you. Go in peace” (Mark 5:34).
That’s the kind of “if only” I want to cling to. The kind that believes if I can just get to Jesus, everything will change.
But not every “if only” ends in healing—at least not right away.
Some echo in regret. Judas Iscariot’s story is one I can’t ignore. After he betrayed Jesus, his eyes were opened to the weight of his actions. He tried to give the money back, but it was too late. The shame consumed him. Instead of running to Jesus like Peter did after his denial, Judas isolated himself in guilt and ended his life (Matthew 27:3–5).
It breaks my heart every time I read it. Because I wonder what would’ve happened if Judas had waited one more day. What if he had seen Jesus resurrected? What if he had heard the words of forgiveness that Peter heard? His “if only” was tragically final. It teaches me that shame doesn’t have to be the end of the story—but if I let it, it will rob me of the redemption waiting just around the corner.
Then there’s Israel again, this time demanding a king. “If only we had a king to lead us,” they said in 1 Samuel 8:5. They were tired of being different from other nations. They wanted to look normal. They wanted a visible leader they could trust.
But God saw through it. “They have rejected me as their king,” He told Samuel. He gave them what they wanted—Saul. And while Saul had the stature and presence they craved, his heart would later drift from God, causing pain and division.
Their “if only” became a lesson in asking for what seems right in our eyes, not what is righteous in His. I’ve asked for things too, thinking they’d fix everything. But God, in His mercy, sometimes lets me see the consequences of chasing lesser things. Still, He never abandons me in them. Even through Saul, God was working a plan that would one day bring David, and ultimately the Messiah, Jesus.
As I reflect on all these stories, something becomes so clear. God doesn’t panic when we doubt. He doesn’t retreat when we question. He doesn’t condemn us when we cry “if only.”
He draws near.
He shows up.
He reveals His glory.
Romans 8:28 promises us that all things—even the hard, confusing, and painful things—work together for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose. That means our delays, our grief, our failures, and even our unanswered prayers are all being woven into a divine tapestry of redemption.
When Martha and Mary said “if only,” Jesus responded with resurrection.
When the Israelites said “if only,” God gave them daily provision from heaven.
When the bleeding woman said “if only,” healing flowed from the hem of a robe.
And when I whisper “if only” in my darkest moments, He doesn’t turn away. He leans in.
I don’t know what your “if only” sounds like today. Maybe you’re grieving a loss, facing a delay, battling regret, or struggling with disappointment. Maybe you feel like the prayer wasn’t answered, the healing never came, the door never opened.
But let me remind you of something I’ve had to remind myself again and again—just because you haven’t seen the miracle yet doesn’t mean it’s not on the way. Just because you feel late doesn’t mean God is. He’s never late. He’s never early. He’s always perfectly on time.
If I’ve learned anything from these stories, it’s that doubt doesn’t disqualify us. In fact, it often becomes the very place where faith is born. It’s okay to say “if only,” but don’t stop there. Let that be the start of a deeper conversation with the God who sees, hears, and redeems.
Bring your “if only” to Him today. Lay it down at His feet. And watch what He does with it.
Recommended Books to Further Study the Subject
Call to Action
Today, I challenge you—turn your “if only” into a “even now.”
Even now, Lord, You are able.
Even now, You can work this together for good.
Even now, You are faithful.
Take time to read John 11. Let the story of Lazarus wash over you. See your own grief in Martha’s cry, your own hope in Jesus’ tears, and your own miracle in Lazarus’ rising.
And then pray this simple prayer with me:
“Lord, I bring my ‘if only’ to You. I don't understand everything, but I trust You. Heal what’s broken. Resurrect what seems dead. Redeem what I regret. I believe You still work all things for good, and I choose to trust You again—even now.”
You are not alone. And you are not forgotten. Your story is still unfolding. And the Author? He’s still writing in ink that never fades.
