“Do you trust me… even with this?” he gently asked her. And though everything in her was screaming to say yes, she slowly shook her head. She couldn’t find a way to trust him. Not with this. She wanted to, but trust meant letting go… and somehow, she couldn’t find a way to release her grip. She bit her lip and looked away. It was too hard to meet his gaze… especially if she couldn’t trust him. His silence suggested that he wanted her to speak… to explain herself. Great. She wasn’t too skilled at explaining herself around him—everything jumbled itself and she always ended up rambling. Well, if he really wanted to know, she’d do her best to make some sense of the colorful emotions swirling around within…
“You see, things are a lot cleaner when they don’t involve people I love. It’s easy to say I’ll trust you with anything, when ‘anything’ doesn’t seem to directly affect me.” Pause. Wait, that seemed… cowardly. How could she claim to trust him when it cost her nothing? Had she always been this… scared? Was it even considered “trust” if there were no substantial consequences of any kind? Alrighty, then. She’d have to try the whole explaining thing over… “I guess I’ve learned that nothing I know does anything for me unless it directly affects what I do or how I feel. And lately, I’ve been reminded of plenty of things that I know, but it just makes me uneasy. You ask for everything. Do you have any idea how much ‘everything’ entails? I got used to the idea of you wanting my broken pieces so you could put me back together… but why do ask for the good and healthy parts? Why? Why do you want those I love most? I swear, they aren’t distracting me…”
Stupid ramblings. She glanced away. Away seemed to clear her head… kind of. Again, she made no sense at all. But how was it supposed to make sense when he asked not only for her worst but also… for her best? How was she supposed to explain that she was happy to give him everything she despised… but why did he want everything she loved too?
All or nothing.
Was that it? She was incapable of giving all, but she was selfish enough to be unhappy with nothing. Maybe she could convince herself that she had given everything… or at least that she was trying to give everything… maybe that’d be enough.
All or nothing.
Uneasily, she glanced up to see if he was watching her. Of course he was. But he was waiting. Simply waiting. It always came down to this. He’d wait for her… forever, if that’s what it took. And she? She’d fight him… forever. Why did she want him so badly and yet fight him with her failing strength? I believe, help my unbelief. Ahh, the paradox… Could they have a relationship free of these contradictions? Die to yourself. I’ll give you life. How? Why must HIS life follow HER death?
“Ok, all or nothing. I get it. I want all. I want everything. I want to give you everything. I promise that’s what I want… but how come I’m so incapable of anything? You ask for all and I seem to only give you nothing. I’m so sick of being unable to let go, but— ”
“Letting go gives a better grip.” He finished the sentence for her. “I’ve told you that my grace is sufficient. You’ve told me that you believe that. But I have one question for you… Do you believe it enough to become weak? Do you believe it enough to embrace your weakness and allow my grace to be enough?” His eyes searched hers.
She blinked, unable to find a proper response. Embrace weakness. Become weak. Trust. Breathing got inexplicably harder as the air around her seemed to thicken. Could she let go enough? Did she trust him enough to let him knock down her crutches and let him catch her as she fell?
“Crutches. I’m on crutches and I’m just scared to lean on you instead. Only injured people need crutches. I…need…crutches…” The thoughts rushed together. She could see them coming together. Dotted lines and arrows. Thought bubbles and sticky notes. Yes, she could see her thoughts flowing together…
His tilted chin showed that he was interested in following her train of thought. Complex, yes. He patiently waited, knowing she’d continue… “You’ve asked if I’m willing to let go. If I’ll trust you with… this. I don’t know what that kind of trust looks like. Quite frankly, I’m not even sure I’m capable of it… but I’m broken. I’m on crutches. I’m… weak. I guess, that’s the whole point. I can’t do it and you know that I can’t. Agh. I wish you’d just ask for something I could do. But trust me when I say this… as much as I know how, I want to trust you. I wish I could release my grip...”
He smiled. Jesus smiled. “My power is made perfect in weakness.”
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Five: Grace
The wastebasket already overflowed with crumpled papers. Some blank. Others covered in pen. Words. Drawings. Silence. Toss. It landed square in the middle, but bounced off finding a place to land.
She sighed and started over. Her already-white knuckles grasped the pen with a certain urgency... willing it to be the connection that would allow her heart to freely flow onto paper. She squinted and wrinkled her nose. There had to be easier ways.
She dropped the pen and allowed her thoughts to turn into whispers."You'd think that by now I'd be an expert at this, wouldn't you? After all the messes I've made, cleaning up wouldn't seem like such a chore by now..."
The silence listened. Or engulfed. Either way, it remained what it was... silence.
"I thought that once was enough. Maybe twice for those of us who suffer from stubbornness. Three times. Then four. And then five. Wait. What number am I at?" The ever-thinning notebook spoke for itself. Too many times.
She began writing again. Pause. Re-read.
...they always seem to sense when you're weakest. It's always after you just made a choice-- a choice that took everything you had inside to make-- and now you're just left empty. It's always after these choices that they come back to taunt... to haunt...
Always when you're weakest. Always. You never know if you learned the lesson until you’re in the same situation… again.
...inches from where I knew the waves would hit. A sand castle, crafted by complete concentration. A sand castle doomed for destruction. This sand castle wouldn't, however, be destroyed by a storm, or rain, or even someone stepping on it. Instead, it would be destroyed by the gentle lapping of the waves. I am that castle...
So fragile. So complex, yet so simple. She was that castle. For so long she had tried to build herself. Fortify and strengthen. Construct and design. Creating something she could be proud of. Yet always, inches away from the very things she new would destroy her. The gentle lapping of the waves...
Thoughts to whispers. "I'm so tired of striving. So tired of trying. So tired of being tired. I don't want to see you in the flames or in the rushing waters or in reckless abandonment. A quiet whisper would be enough. But where are you?"
Silence. Overwhelming silence.
She sighed and started over. Her already-white knuckles grasped the pen with a certain urgency... willing it to be the connection that would allow her heart to freely flow onto paper. She squinted and wrinkled her nose. There had to be easier ways.
Rip.
Sigh.
Crumple.
Sigh.
Toss.
She dropped the pen and allowed her thoughts to turn into whispers."You'd think that by now I'd be an expert at this, wouldn't you? After all the messes I've made, cleaning up wouldn't seem like such a chore by now..."
The silence listened. Or engulfed. Either way, it remained what it was... silence.
"I thought that once was enough. Maybe twice for those of us who suffer from stubbornness. Three times. Then four. And then five. Wait. What number am I at?" The ever-thinning notebook spoke for itself. Too many times.
She began writing again. Pause. Re-read.
...they always seem to sense when you're weakest. It's always after you just made a choice-- a choice that took everything you had inside to make-- and now you're just left empty. It's always after these choices that they come back to taunt... to haunt...
Always when you're weakest. Always. You never know if you learned the lesson until you’re in the same situation… again.
...inches from where I knew the waves would hit. A sand castle, crafted by complete concentration. A sand castle doomed for destruction. This sand castle wouldn't, however, be destroyed by a storm, or rain, or even someone stepping on it. Instead, it would be destroyed by the gentle lapping of the waves. I am that castle...
So fragile. So complex, yet so simple. She was that castle. For so long she had tried to build herself. Fortify and strengthen. Construct and design. Creating something she could be proud of. Yet always, inches away from the very things she new would destroy her. The gentle lapping of the waves...
Thoughts to whispers. "I'm so tired of striving. So tired of trying. So tired of being tired. I don't want to see you in the flames or in the rushing waters or in reckless abandonment. A quiet whisper would be enough. But where are you?"
Silence. Overwhelming silence.
Rip.
Sigh.
Crumple.
Sigh.
Toss.
She turned to the next page in the notebook. To start over. To try again. She willed herself to write, yet only one word found itself on the paper:
grace
grace
Four: Love
She ripped a petal off on a flower. Whisper. Petal. Whisper. Petal. He loves me not. She kept walking and tossed the naked flower to the side. Conversations from weeks past resonated within her mind, forcing her to re-live each moment. He loves me not. She squeezed her eyes shut but the faces were still real. She didn’t want to remember… she needed to forget. He loves me not. She sighed and kept putting one foot in front of the other, willing herself forward. She didn’t need to turn around to know that he was following her, that he was listening. He loves me not. Why did every footstep resonate those words? Stop. Turn.
A simple glance into his gentle eyes was all it took. Watered eyes turned into sobs and soon she couldn’t breathe. He took a step closer, led her to a bench and let her cry. And cry. It could have been hours, it could have been minutes. His fingers found her face and lifted her chin… forcing their eyes to meet.
“I know you want me to talk,” she whispered, averting her eyes, “but I can’t talk to you when I’m so… so unworthy. Everything you’ve given me, showed me and done for me—it’s more than I deserve or could ever repay. Your love…” She bit her lip and choked back some tears.
“I want to want your love more than I want life… more than anything. But I don’t. Why can’t wanting something bad enough be good enough? Yet every time I turn to you something… or someone pulls my heart away. Everything in me wants to believe you when you say you’re all I need, but something doesn’t. I find myself doubting every time and every time I want to be filled. Can’t you just fill me without waiting for me to believe it inside and out?
“If your love is really that good and that satisfying, then why am I still empty? Will my desire to follow you and be filled by you ever be satisfied? I don’t want to keep running on half-empty.”
She leaned away and picked a new flower. Petal. Whisper. Petal. Whisper.
“Why do I keep asking this question? Why aren’t your answers enough? I don’t want to feel useless and worthless. I want you. I don’t want to be a flower picked and tossed away. I want you. I’m sick of clinging to plastic pearls. I want you. But why isn’t wanting you enough? Why is it never enough?”
Jesus didn’t answer right away. He picked a flower…Petal. Whisper. Petal. Whisper.
I love you.
A simple glance into his gentle eyes was all it took. Watered eyes turned into sobs and soon she couldn’t breathe. He took a step closer, led her to a bench and let her cry. And cry. It could have been hours, it could have been minutes. His fingers found her face and lifted her chin… forcing their eyes to meet.
“I know you want me to talk,” she whispered, averting her eyes, “but I can’t talk to you when I’m so… so unworthy. Everything you’ve given me, showed me and done for me—it’s more than I deserve or could ever repay. Your love…” She bit her lip and choked back some tears.
“I want to want your love more than I want life… more than anything. But I don’t. Why can’t wanting something bad enough be good enough? Yet every time I turn to you something… or someone pulls my heart away. Everything in me wants to believe you when you say you’re all I need, but something doesn’t. I find myself doubting every time and every time I want to be filled. Can’t you just fill me without waiting for me to believe it inside and out?
“If your love is really that good and that satisfying, then why am I still empty? Will my desire to follow you and be filled by you ever be satisfied? I don’t want to keep running on half-empty.”
She leaned away and picked a new flower. Petal. Whisper. Petal. Whisper.
“Why do I keep asking this question? Why aren’t your answers enough? I don’t want to feel useless and worthless. I want you. I don’t want to be a flower picked and tossed away. I want you. I’m sick of clinging to plastic pearls. I want you. But why isn’t wanting you enough? Why is it never enough?”
Jesus didn’t answer right away. He picked a flower…Petal. Whisper. Petal. Whisper.
I love you.
Three: Friendship
“It’s been a while since we talked,” she began… “Our conversations tend to be so one-sided and I’ve realized I just fail when it comes to listening. I want to remember what it was like to hear you… to hear your voice. I want to remember what it was like to be best friends. Did I really have that kind of friendship with you? Were you really my best friend? Why does that seem like such a distant memory? Remind me, because I seem to forget what’s most important.”
He reached out to touch her hand… she held it for a second before pulling away.
“Stop it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve anything like you. You’re too good for me, too good to me and I’ll never be good enough… this isn’t right. I fail you, I lie to you, I avoid you, I forget you… and you love me? It doesn’t make sense. Won’t you ever just give up on me? Everyone else does…”
He let her thoughts wander… knowing she’d continue,“But you aren’t like everyone else, are you?”
The question echoed in the room and into the depths of her lonely heart. No. He wasn’t like everyone else.
“Your love is too good to be true. Too eternal to be real. Too unconditional to be possible… yet your love is here. Your love is impossible. But its here. I had forgotten how cold it was without you—without your presence. I forgot that my heart needed you to beat. Instead, I turned away and walked away… I faded away. A stupid, small step didn’t seem like a problem… but now I’m miles down this path, looking back and wondering how I ever ended up here…”
He remained silent, but this time began writing in the sand. Without noticing, she kept allowed her soul to verbalize. At first it came as a whisper…“We used to laugh, didn’t we? We used to smile and joke and play and have fun… and I really did love you, didn’t I?” She drew a deep breath in and kept it in. Her eyes widened in amazement, and suddenly she kicked the ground.
“WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR ME TO REMEMBER?”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she watched it hit the sand. Jesus stood up and watched her read the words.
I’m still waiting for you to come home…
In a quiet whisper she breathed, “I miss you.”
He reached out to touch her hand… she held it for a second before pulling away.
“Stop it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve anything like you. You’re too good for me, too good to me and I’ll never be good enough… this isn’t right. I fail you, I lie to you, I avoid you, I forget you… and you love me? It doesn’t make sense. Won’t you ever just give up on me? Everyone else does…”
He let her thoughts wander… knowing she’d continue,“But you aren’t like everyone else, are you?”
The question echoed in the room and into the depths of her lonely heart. No. He wasn’t like everyone else.
“Your love is too good to be true. Too eternal to be real. Too unconditional to be possible… yet your love is here. Your love is impossible. But its here. I had forgotten how cold it was without you—without your presence. I forgot that my heart needed you to beat. Instead, I turned away and walked away… I faded away. A stupid, small step didn’t seem like a problem… but now I’m miles down this path, looking back and wondering how I ever ended up here…”
He remained silent, but this time began writing in the sand. Without noticing, she kept allowed her soul to verbalize. At first it came as a whisper…“We used to laugh, didn’t we? We used to smile and joke and play and have fun… and I really did love you, didn’t I?” She drew a deep breath in and kept it in. Her eyes widened in amazement, and suddenly she kicked the ground.
“WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR ME TO REMEMBER?”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she watched it hit the sand. Jesus stood up and watched her read the words.
I’m still waiting for you to come home…
In a quiet whisper she breathed, “I miss you.”
Two: Surrender
She threaded one end of the string through the other and pulled. The knot tightened. Her heart tightened. She could feel his eyes on her, but she could find the will to meet his gaze. A sigh slipped out as she placed her hands in her lap.
“Look,” she said, “I’m just tired. I’m tired of trying to be good enough for you. I’m tired of trying to do it myself. Its exhausting and I fear I’ll never measure up. You said I don’t need to change to accept your love… but I want to. I love you—at least I think I do… I believe I do. I trust you—as much as I know how. But is that enough? I’m sick of words flying out of my mouth and falling helplessly. They’re empty. Why? You say you love me. But I’m scared of your love. I’m scared of myself.”
He handed her another piece of string. She continued tying knots. The silence seemed heavy and every knot seemed to squeeze her stomach tighter. Their eyes met and before he could say anything she decided to continue.
“You say all you want—all you expect from me—is my heart. But can’t you see? All you want is all I am. I’ve told you that you can have everything. But ‘everything’ is too hard to understand when I have nothing… am nothing.” That realization hurt: it pierced. Nothing. Why would he love her… love nothing? He beckoned her heart to surrender. Surrender, however, was so much more than a simple prayer she couldn’t figure out.
“You promised me something better, but why must I release my ‘good’ to receive your ‘better’? I can’t seem to figure out how to let go… how to loosen my grip. Would you just take this from me? Don’t ask for me to release it… I’m asking you to take it. Do you hate me for asking? Are you sick of me failing?”
He held out his hand and asked for the string full of knots. Not understanding, she handed them to him and tried to put her thoughts in order. Or maybe she was putting her heart in order. How can he love me when I refuse to surrender?
Jesus untied the knots. One by one. “If you trust me, I can untie the knots… and teach you the art of surrender.”
“Look,” she said, “I’m just tired. I’m tired of trying to be good enough for you. I’m tired of trying to do it myself. Its exhausting and I fear I’ll never measure up. You said I don’t need to change to accept your love… but I want to. I love you—at least I think I do… I believe I do. I trust you—as much as I know how. But is that enough? I’m sick of words flying out of my mouth and falling helplessly. They’re empty. Why? You say you love me. But I’m scared of your love. I’m scared of myself.”
He handed her another piece of string. She continued tying knots. The silence seemed heavy and every knot seemed to squeeze her stomach tighter. Their eyes met and before he could say anything she decided to continue.
“You say all you want—all you expect from me—is my heart. But can’t you see? All you want is all I am. I’ve told you that you can have everything. But ‘everything’ is too hard to understand when I have nothing… am nothing.” That realization hurt: it pierced. Nothing. Why would he love her… love nothing? He beckoned her heart to surrender. Surrender, however, was so much more than a simple prayer she couldn’t figure out.
“You promised me something better, but why must I release my ‘good’ to receive your ‘better’? I can’t seem to figure out how to let go… how to loosen my grip. Would you just take this from me? Don’t ask for me to release it… I’m asking you to take it. Do you hate me for asking? Are you sick of me failing?”
He held out his hand and asked for the string full of knots. Not understanding, she handed them to him and tried to put her thoughts in order. Or maybe she was putting her heart in order. How can he love me when I refuse to surrender?
Jesus untied the knots. One by one. “If you trust me, I can untie the knots… and teach you the art of surrender.”
One: Confession
Apologize?” he asked, “But you—”
“Just listen,” she replied, “It’s a long list and I need you to understand.” She took a deep breath before continuing, “I’m sorry for lying, lying about loving you. I mean, I do love you, but not how I say I do. I’m sorry for letting people and things get in the way of time with you. I feel like I grasp your hand in one moment, but when I need you most, I let go. As I’m falling I helplessly and hopelessly grab for anyone’s hand, yet to no avail: I fall without you. And that’s what really matters—that I’m without you. I’m sorry for going without you. I’m sorry for promising to change, but I keep falling and the scraped hands and bloody knees are enough to keep me broken on the floor.
“I’m sorry for failing to find my strength and complete joy in you. I ask you to strengthen me, yet when you do, I complain and ask you to stop. I know you’re strengthening me but I hate feeling so weak. Your joy is the only kind that satisfies, yet I’ve left it to a side, expecting to find more elsewhere. I’m sorry. Your joy should be enough for my pain. I’m sorry for taking your love for granted, for allowing my fears—” her voice broke and after a pause she continued, “for allowing my fears build walls that try to keep your love out. I’m sorry for basing my idea of you off of my relationships with others. I’m sorry for doubting your goodness. I’m sorry for expecting you to let me down. You never have, yet in my heart I keep waiting for the day that, you too, will fail me. I’m sorry for not making time to be with you, for waiting until the end of the day, if there’s time to spend time with you. I’m sorry for not making you first in my life. I’m sorry for lying as I sing. I tend to forget the value of the words that I’m singing, so I’m sorry for proclaiming things that are not true in me.”
She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, “I’m sorry for pretending to follow in your footsteps. I say pretending because I tell you I do, and I tell others I do, yet I fail to see your footsteps in front of me before I take a step. I don’t wait to find your path; I’m too impatient to wait for your timing. There’s a selfish beast inside that snarls when you ask me to follow. I’m sorry for that—for keeping the beast inside, instead of doing everything possible to kill it. I’m sorry for saying that I trust you, yet I withhold the most basic aspects from you.”
She sighed and he began to interrupt, “But you don’t—”
“No. I need to finish. I’m sick of keeping this inside and letting the secrets and shame rot within,” she countered. Another breath. Pause—as if pausing would erase reason to voice the thoughts that were going through her mind. Pause—as if pausing would make this not be as real as it was. Her mouth opened, a tear slipped down her cheek and with her eyes still closed, she continued, “I’m sick of being broken and I’m sorry for telling everyone that only you can heal, yet I seem to be ashamed of showing you all my shattered pieces. I look for any magnet to hold, a magnet that will pull me together, but without you in the center, I’ll always be a body hosting a broken heart. I’m sick of being independent and self-sufficient, but most importantly I’m sorry for trying. I want you to pick up every piece of me, and I want you to put me together. I want you to hold my hand every day, and I want you to guide each footstep I take. I’m sorry for lying about what I want with every single action I take.”
The tears that streamed down her face continued, but the silent crying erupted into gasping sobs. He reached over to comfort her, but she pushed him aside and sat up abruptly.
“I’m not finished. There’s more,” she stammered. “I’m sorry for misrepresenting you time and time again. I’m sorry that, because of me, some won’t want to come to you. I said I wanted to be like you and follow you, and bring others to you, yet because of my stubborn selfishness, I’ve pushed many away. I’m sorry that you asked me to love how you love, yet I fail to even love myself. I’m sorry for saying I believe you, but when you tell me I’m yours and I’m fine the way I am, I’m sorry for not believing. I’m sorry for not feeding the poor or sacrificing myself for others. I’m sorry for not making you evident in every single area of my life. I’m sorry for being a broken mirror that’s trying to reflect you, but fails”
The sobs overcame her once again and this time, when he reached out and hugged her, she didn’t resist. Everything within her was collapsing. As he comforted her, a strange sense of peace, a peace that surpasses understanding began to fill her. The broken, sharp pieces inside suddenly didn’t seem so sharp. In Jesus’ arms, it didn’t matter that she was falling apart. He seemed to be the only one who could hold her together anyway.
“My daughter, this is why I died for you.”
“Just listen,” she replied, “It’s a long list and I need you to understand.” She took a deep breath before continuing, “I’m sorry for lying, lying about loving you. I mean, I do love you, but not how I say I do. I’m sorry for letting people and things get in the way of time with you. I feel like I grasp your hand in one moment, but when I need you most, I let go. As I’m falling I helplessly and hopelessly grab for anyone’s hand, yet to no avail: I fall without you. And that’s what really matters—that I’m without you. I’m sorry for going without you. I’m sorry for promising to change, but I keep falling and the scraped hands and bloody knees are enough to keep me broken on the floor.
“I’m sorry for failing to find my strength and complete joy in you. I ask you to strengthen me, yet when you do, I complain and ask you to stop. I know you’re strengthening me but I hate feeling so weak. Your joy is the only kind that satisfies, yet I’ve left it to a side, expecting to find more elsewhere. I’m sorry. Your joy should be enough for my pain. I’m sorry for taking your love for granted, for allowing my fears—” her voice broke and after a pause she continued, “for allowing my fears build walls that try to keep your love out. I’m sorry for basing my idea of you off of my relationships with others. I’m sorry for doubting your goodness. I’m sorry for expecting you to let me down. You never have, yet in my heart I keep waiting for the day that, you too, will fail me. I’m sorry for not making time to be with you, for waiting until the end of the day, if there’s time to spend time with you. I’m sorry for not making you first in my life. I’m sorry for lying as I sing. I tend to forget the value of the words that I’m singing, so I’m sorry for proclaiming things that are not true in me.”
She pursed her lips and closed her eyes, “I’m sorry for pretending to follow in your footsteps. I say pretending because I tell you I do, and I tell others I do, yet I fail to see your footsteps in front of me before I take a step. I don’t wait to find your path; I’m too impatient to wait for your timing. There’s a selfish beast inside that snarls when you ask me to follow. I’m sorry for that—for keeping the beast inside, instead of doing everything possible to kill it. I’m sorry for saying that I trust you, yet I withhold the most basic aspects from you.”
She sighed and he began to interrupt, “But you don’t—”
“No. I need to finish. I’m sick of keeping this inside and letting the secrets and shame rot within,” she countered. Another breath. Pause—as if pausing would erase reason to voice the thoughts that were going through her mind. Pause—as if pausing would make this not be as real as it was. Her mouth opened, a tear slipped down her cheek and with her eyes still closed, she continued, “I’m sick of being broken and I’m sorry for telling everyone that only you can heal, yet I seem to be ashamed of showing you all my shattered pieces. I look for any magnet to hold, a magnet that will pull me together, but without you in the center, I’ll always be a body hosting a broken heart. I’m sick of being independent and self-sufficient, but most importantly I’m sorry for trying. I want you to pick up every piece of me, and I want you to put me together. I want you to hold my hand every day, and I want you to guide each footstep I take. I’m sorry for lying about what I want with every single action I take.”
The tears that streamed down her face continued, but the silent crying erupted into gasping sobs. He reached over to comfort her, but she pushed him aside and sat up abruptly.
“I’m not finished. There’s more,” she stammered. “I’m sorry for misrepresenting you time and time again. I’m sorry that, because of me, some won’t want to come to you. I said I wanted to be like you and follow you, and bring others to you, yet because of my stubborn selfishness, I’ve pushed many away. I’m sorry that you asked me to love how you love, yet I fail to even love myself. I’m sorry for saying I believe you, but when you tell me I’m yours and I’m fine the way I am, I’m sorry for not believing. I’m sorry for not feeding the poor or sacrificing myself for others. I’m sorry for not making you evident in every single area of my life. I’m sorry for being a broken mirror that’s trying to reflect you, but fails”
The sobs overcame her once again and this time, when he reached out and hugged her, she didn’t resist. Everything within her was collapsing. As he comforted her, a strange sense of peace, a peace that surpasses understanding began to fill her. The broken, sharp pieces inside suddenly didn’t seem so sharp. In Jesus’ arms, it didn’t matter that she was falling apart. He seemed to be the only one who could hold her together anyway.
“My daughter, this is why I died for you.”
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