You keep reaching. You wake up, arms outstretched or sore and you can’t figure out what it is you are striving for. Dead things and worked strings and patiently waiting for something to take hold of you and let you soar. You burn and fade away, gone are days but a long pattern of consciousness and unconsciousness.
God is there. God is in that fire in your chest as you swear up and down that you won’t give up. Won’t pardon yourself to live less than what it is that he wants. But in the glory of the Maker you falter and stumble and fall. Fall.
That’s all.
That’s it.
Words of defeat loom from all sides as your champion declares it’s part of the design, and you sing. You sing until your lungs are gone, eroded by precious song made precious not by your voice but by the very God that declared that you are indeed able to go on.
Friends, God carries us on. Through my mother’s tears and my father’s broken heart through a car and a brain that may or may not start, through damaged synapses, empty pockets lined with the knowledge of your own empty stomach, He is the bread that sustains you and the water that resuscitates you after your flowing sobs have taken you down for the count.
Be shut out and know that you are adored,
Speak in the emptiness and know that you are precious to the Lord, who holds back his lionlike wrath so that you may find grace in the Son’s bloody aftermath.
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