Estimated reading time: 4 minute(s)

I need to write.

And yet, I let my days go by without intentionally making that happen.

I have myriad reasons for it. Some practical, some less so. Quite often, I might just actually not have a moment long enough to flesh out these thoughts within me between all of the other things and people I am responsible for. Other times my heart is too burdened by the events of the day—and/or the current season of life—to allow the gates to be opened and the contents to spill forth upon paper; or, keyboard and data storage device, as it were.

But somehow when I take the time to pour forth my inner being through words chosen, crafted, formed in my mind and heart… somehow by that action my spirit is buoyed. My heart feels lighter, freer. It is because I am somehow made to be this way. Not just made to do this, but deeper. More true to me, as God fashioned me.

That’s not to say that I am somehow a great wordsmith or have honed any of this “way of being” into a craft or trade (or anything like it). My writing has at times inspired, encouraged, uplifted, even challenged other souls who may come across it, but in their essence, the times I take to write are meant for me. As I work out the thoughts that are nearly constantly “on” in my head, God speaks to my inner being and teaches me as the words form on the screen in front of my eyes.

It’s really quite humbling. Astonishing. Invigorating.

Again, this is more for me—likely—than for you, the reader.

I am also glad you are here, though. Because, even if your eyes should never come across this page… I write to you. I speak to you who listen intently. Who ponder these thoughts with me. Who allow all prejudices and biases and other cages we make for thoughts and realities and possibilities to be absent from this place; you allow your mind to wander with me down ways perhaps less (or even never) trodden.

It’s good to have company. It’s good to not be alone.

I must say, that I find God is recently stripping away façades that I myself have placed on others around me. Not anything of their own doing. Really and truly these are of my own making. It springs from my eternal optimism. (A friend once referred to it as PermaJube. I think he may have referred to me as PermaJube…) I always think the best of everyone, to the point of forgetting that we are all fallen, all broken. And so I hold people to higher standards than they can possibly achieve—unwittingly—until some event, direct or indirect, shows me that they are just as broken, weak, fragile, and needy as me.

And that leaves me feeling alone. Because, even in my brokenness, I know that I am redeemed. I am restored, healed, I have hope. And for the most part, I live that hope. What I’m seeing around me (I believe by God’s great grace given to me) is that so many of us don’t live in that. I’m sure that even though I feel that I am living that way, Jesus will reveal to me more and more deeply the ways that I can live in the fullness of life that is him. But somehow, in this season, I am seeing the frailty of even the people I most cherish and respect.

And again I am alone.

Just Jesus remains. Just he and I, navigating this path of brokenness. He, and I, and words. Words which meagerly attempt to capture the essence of these spiritual realities that my consciousness (and my unconsciousness?) merely grazes the outer edge of a much deeper, greater sea of truth that I can never really know.

But he does. He is that Truth. That Life. That Reality.

I’m so glad I have him. And that he has me. That’s even better.

And so I write. And by writing, by giving “voice” to these thoughts in my head, he reminds me of truth. Of him. I breathe hope. I exhale grief, weight, burden. I breathe him.

I am not alone.

I’m glad you’re here, too. I know you are frail and weak like me. I know we do have days when we feel more sure-footed, but I also know we look in the heart mirror at times and see the full blackness of us. But we have hope. We are loved. Even then. At our worst (or at what we think is our best)… we are loved.

You are. And I am. And we are not alone. We have hope.

And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, who will never leave you. —John 14:16

And, since we have hope, we ought to live in the light. We can be free to be whom God made us to be. So I will write. I will. I must. And whatever it is that God has made you to be, be that.

For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago. —Ephesians 2:10

Be you. As I am able to live in hope and light and freedom, I will endeavor to also be “me”. Thankfully, it’s not just me, but Christ in me.

It’s much better that way. As it was meant to be.