Perhaps, rather than inspiration, it is desperation that prods me to write, to push the weight of words off my chest.I am weary of being weary. I long for courage. I long to be wrapped in the lion-heart of my Savior, to be comforted as only He can comfort. I have sought that comfort in the world around me, people and places and things, but have returned still thirsty and desperate.
Because the comfort I long for cannot be manmade. The depth of warmth and peace my soul aches for, scratches at my insides for, is too vast to come from anyone but an infinite God.
It doesn't go away, this ache. I am more aware of it than I have ever been. I cannot escape it. Even wrapped in worship music and scripture, the ache finds me whenever I am alone; it comes crawling after me, pushing the ball of salt water, that I refuse to acknowledge, up and out, through my eyes and over my cheeks.
But here, suddenly, is the incalculable truth. I must face the ache. Hold out my arms and let it wrap me up. Somehow, my soul sees that this ache will give me wings. The ache pushes up the red staircase of my throat, out into beating song, or through my fingers in red, bleeding words. It hurts, but it hurts less than when it is an empty, unacknowledged weight I carry around in the pit of my stomach.
This is grief. This is growing up.
So please, World, don't give up. Don't let fear guide you, fear of pain or sorrow, of loss or betrayal or loneliness.
Let this great goodness guide you:that an infinite God made Himself man and died, simply so that we, peasants and slaves, could enter the castle of the King, and sit by the fire, and talk with Him.
And be filled.
With all my heart,
Note: These images are not mine; they were discovered on that little gem we call Pinterest.