I want to speak words of faith and hope. Often I falter and speak pain.
It is the ever continuing cycle of submission and yielding to the Spirit of God. The emptying of myself, and the opening and freeing to be filled with Him.
I write words and words.
I hesitate, I speak, I cringe.
I long for the perfection of choosing the correct thing at the perfect time.
I hear of someone’s misfortune and want to share, somehow, of God’s goodness and faithfulness to all who believe. But I forget that the only way to tell that is to live it.
I ask for prayer for my own crushing weight and sit in questioning if I should have spoken. My loss is so small, so pitiful, so unimportant. It swirls and pushes, this cry of inferiority.
And I listen hard and struggle deep to know His voice amidst those grasping for my attention.
My words, all of them, spoken in fractured pieces. An aching fear that what I speak will not be understood. And a burning desire to push the stage lights onto the only One that matters at all.
Usually the emptiest and rawest words bring hope and light to others.
It is the brokenness that heals.
And it is my inferiority, my failure, my loss that paves the way for His glory, His victory, His hope.