Two weeks ago, I wrote a post, closed my computer, and fell to the floor, exhausted. My series of thirty posts had come to an end, and I felt all at once relieved and amazed and utterly undone.
Words shouldn’t unravel me like that, I think, and I should not feel this way, especially after all that God has done. I started this blog a year ago, stepping out in faith and trying not to be afraid of the fact that I might have been wrong about something I thought was a gift, about something I thought God could use.
Over the course of the days, post after post, all I have has been laid bare, and all that is in me–and all that is not–has been exposed. Something of God has been exposed too, it seems, but I am tired. Wrecked.
Perhaps it is an emotional crisis and I will get over it in a day or two, I think. But the days roll on and on, and I have stayed here, contemplating the carpet, unable to move, unable to get up and do this again. I wonder if there is anything left. And if there is anything left, is it any good? For the first time since all this began, I think perhaps I should stop. No, that’s not quite it. I do not wonder if I should stop. I wonder if I can go on.
I will close my eyes, I think, just for a little while, and sleep.
Then I hear God saying to me, “What are you doing here?”
I am hiding, God. I am hiding like Adam in the garden. I am hiding like Elijah in the cave. I am hiding like Jonah in the bottom of a ship. I am hiding because it has all been too much. You’ve been great–really. But it has all been a little too hard, and I do not know if I can do it again.
I am hiding because I am afraid.
Be not afraid.
I am hiding because I am weak.
I am strong.
I am hiding because I have nothing left.
I am sufficient.
I am hiding because this matters, God! It matters, and I am not doing it very well.
I know it matters; I’m the One who called you to it.
You should have known better.
I don’t make mistakes.
I know that.
It’s just that other people are doing it better—and without even breaking a sweat—and I am flat out on the floor over a little bit of mediocrity.
Let me be the judge of that.
But I am afraid. I’m afraid that I’m not…enough.
You are not enough. But I AM.
It is a whisper, a still small voice, that rushes in and forces tears from eyes that have grown dull. It is truth that catches in my lungs like a breath of life. I have felt so ruined. But it is as if bone is joined to bone and my brokenness is repaired. Sinews and ligaments and muscles grow over and cover my weakness. Flesh fills in where blood has spilled and I am raised up again.
It is more than enough. It is everything.
So, what are you doing here?
I was just getting up.
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