Tucked between the pages of my journal are words that aren't my own.
Treasured words of wisdom penned on familiar stationary, in a font I would know anywhere. Words reminding me to rest. Kindness advising against tirelessly seeking change.
Words I needed to hear this week.
Because this week I faced it. The quarter race crisis.
The questions that bring silent tears each night…
What am I doing here?
What do I have to offer?
Am I even changing at all?
The frantic questions are nothing new. They speak of faithlessness and longing for control, a song I have sung most of my years. They unveil insecurities hidden behind a life of lists and five year plans and logic over heart. Three sentences of misplaced trust in the doing and offering and changing to produce something more beautiful than the present.
When did the process became more important than the person, even when that person is me?
I wrestle this.
Fill pages of my journal.
Sip coffee in silence to give my heart a break.
Wrestle, write, wipe my tears, sip more coffee [repeat].
I almost come up short.
I'm empty. Out of words, out of coffee, and my tears have more or less stained my cheeks and abandoned me. And in the silence, I am reminded of the invitation to abide.
"Not only does the Father, the vinedresser, promise our growth in fruitfulness, but also the vine himself, Jesus, continually removes our unbelief and folly through his Word. As he was washing feet earlier in the evening, Jesus spoke these words: “You are clean” (John 13:10). Again he says, “Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you” (John 15:3). We don’t have to struggle to be sure that he is doing his work. He knows how to speak words of cleansing to us, washing us with the water of the Word. Yes, we need to continually expose ourselves to his Word, but the job of cleaning us up so that we can produce fruit is his."
I am clean because Christ said I am.
Fruit, change, and gifts to offer have already been promised.
The journey isn't the story. The story is personal.
My story, isn't a manual of how to, but a poem of communion.
The beauty isn't in the measurable changes or comparisons, but the story of being loved enough to be washed and cleansed. Glory is not in my own trying, but in His triumph on the Cross.
Tonight, it is my prayer to find peace in the present. To walk and speak and love in contentment; confident, I have been knitted together with tenderness and gifts to offer. A thanksgiving for the freedom to fall short and yet remain in Him. A tearful thank you at the thought of Christ hanging on the tree thinking of me and not all the changes I could attempt to make me more like Him.
Excerpt From: Elyse M. Fitzpatrick. “Comforts from the Cross.” Crossway Books, 2009-04-03.
