Confessions

I have a confession to make.

I’m broken.

I worry too much. I’m convinced the sky is falling (I swear, a 15 foot sliver fell on my head just yesterday). I feel like I am failing my children because I’m three years behind in their scrapbooks. I feel like I look at my computer more than them. My baseboards are disgusting. My dogs have mats in their fur because I don’t brush them enough. I sorely need a date night with my husband.

As if that isn’t enough, I’m convinced my writing sucks. Sometimes I only brush my teeth once a day, and sometimes I forget altogether. I am frightened many times by the thought that people actually read what I write. And if you read my blog long enough, you’ll figure out I’m afraid of a lot more than that.

In short, I smell like beef and cheese.

At least, that’s what Elf would say.

But you know what?

That’s ok.

Because (thankfully) I have a writing prayer team who reminds me to keep going when I want to give up. And they calm me down when I’m anxious and whiney. And they even put me in my place when I need to be put there.

I have a friend on that prayer team who reminded me of the story of Gideon in Judges 6. Gideon couldn’t believe God wanted to use him. Gideon argued back, telling God he was the weakest and the least of his family and clan. Here’s their dialogue, from Judges 6:14-16:

The LORD turned to him and said, “Go in the strength you have and save Israel out of Midian’s hand. Am I not sending you?”

 “Pardon me, my lord,” Gideon replied, “but how can I save Israel? My clan is the weakest in Manasseh, and I am the least in my family.”

 The LORD answered, “I will be with you, and you will strike down all the Midianites, leaving none alive.”

Gideon felt like a schmuck.

But God had something else to say.

God reminded Gideon He was in it.

And that–all confessions aside–is what always makes all the difference.

That’s what helps us rise above the briar and nettles of life so Jesus is all people see.

Where do you feel inadequate today? That place, my friend, may be exactly the place where God intends to use you.

Have you asked someone to pray for you today? Don’t hesitate to do so. It blesses the intercessor as much as it blesses you.

When we say, “What a wonderful personality, what a fascinating person, and what wonderful insight!” then what opportunity does the gospel of God have through all of that? It cannot get through, because the attraction is to the messenger and not the message. If a person attracts through his personality, that becomes his appeal. If, however, he is identified with the Lord Himself, then the appeal becomes what Jesus Christ can do. The danger is to glory in men, yet Jesus says we are to lift up only Him. ~Oswald Chambers, November 9, My Utmost for His Highest

On brokenness

Each of us knows a piece of hell.

As soon as we breathe our first breath, we know it. Because our first breath means there shall be a last.

The moments between the first and last hold pieces of heaven and chunks of hell. Slivers of wholeness and shards of brokenness.

Hell. 

Brokenness.

Whatever you want to call it.

Life.

Like this tiny acorn I found this weekend, squished between craggy rocks at the edge of a choppy lake. So full of promise. Pressed in by pointy edges. Exposed to the wind and rain, sun and heat.

Someday, the acorn must choose: to expose a tiny root to the warm hug of the soil . . . or to stay encapsulated within itself, unable to rise, unable to reach Heavenward, unable to create a canopy to shade its own seedlings.

Exposure means being chipped away by rough edges . . . bracing against storms . . . reaching past foggy mornings . . . risking driving rains . . . growing crooked then straightening out . . . pushing forth leaves and dropping them . . . again and again and again. 

Brokenness is choosing to live exposed.

That’s what I think.

Do you?

Hope floats

sinking in the deafening

din of deep

shadows

at the surface

 light flickers

in the crazy

brokenness of churning

water

at the bottom

breathless

in the mire

reaching

past the tangled web

burning lungs

holding on

holding it in

waiting to kick

to the surface

splash into the tingling

scream of thin

caressing air

hope

is breathing

in

Him

*This post is also linked to this week’s One Word at a Time blog carnival on hope and Tuesdays Unwrapped.