I have been a christian for half my life. I've taken classes, studied, praised, counseled, ministered, been ministered to, and God's word is like cake to me. Gooey. Rich. Sweet to my soul.
I have found though, the longer I am saved, the less I feel deserving to be.
I remember so clearly who, and what, I was before Jesus.
Possibly because some of my struggles are the same.
Anger. Pride. Ego. Lust.
I know. Women don't talk about lust much. It seems like a topic reserved for men and honestly, I almost left it off the page. But that wouldn't be my truth. So. There.
Sure. It's less than before .... Less most days, but every now and again, B A M.
Still oh so human.
I must actively pursue God. I must make my love for Jesus a verb.
The bible says, "to love Him is to obey Him." (john 14:15) Words are not enough.
Every day I am confronted with how undeserving I am, how completely unworthy, when I am faced with God's goodness and my sin.
It would be so much easier if I felt good all the time. Good is such a lame word. But you know what I mean, right? If I always felt comforted, alive, found.
But sometimes I don't. Sometimes I feel lost. Sometimes I feel alone. Sometimes life is so hard.
The bible is clear, no student is greater than his teacher.
Nothing about Jesus' life was easy.
I imagine he did not feel good all the time.
Like when people only wanted something from him. Like when he was followed only for what he could do for others. Like when he was lied about. Like when he was stabbed in the back by his friends. Like when he hung on a cross, forsaken.
The more I learn about who He was and what He went through, the more I realize just how much he understands my own struggles, my own life.
He really does get it.
I think of his weariness.
I have grown weary.
And yes, I am reminded too of the scripture, "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." (Galations 6:9)
I know this.
And I am still weary.
Running on fumes.
Not much left to give.
I sat outside, in the cold dark, and cried while speaking to my husband.
I cried for the ministry I started. I cried for the hiatus I have taken. And in the middle of my tears I said for the first time out loud, "I just don't want to do it anymore."
Broken. Lost. Tired.
I am so tired. I feel it in my bones. They don't want to move. And I don't know how to rest, how to fill up.
I try to read my bible. Sometimes I just stare at it, unable to absorb anything.
I try to pray. And sometimes all I can get out is, "help me. please."
My husband is so blessed.
He attends a weekly prayer meeting every Tuesday. Fifty men show up to pray and encourage one another. He works with a man who is a strong Christian, and they are able to swap God stories and speak life into one another every. single. day.
He comes home with story after story of people he has met at the gas station, at Home Depot, the bank, that he has talked to and prayed with.
I am envious. Envious of his immediate response, good or bad, but mostly good, from the people he comes in contact with.
I am envious of his fill up. every. single. day.
I am not intending to whine.
My heart.
My heart though,
is troubled.
The whispers in my head grow louder.
Look at him, he's a better Christian than you. He must love Jesus more.
Why aren't you going to a prayer meeting?
Why aren't you getting a response?
Because you fail every. single. day. to show God's love, his peace.
You reflect too much Shannon.
You just aren't good enough.
I know it is the Enemy, my Accuser.
How?
Because I am left feeling guilty and condemned.
There is no grace, no mercy.
Jeff says it is a season. We all have different seasons. Jeff reminds me of the people I get to touch on a weekly basis. He reminds me that my prayers are honest, from the heart, and sincere. Powerful.
I don't feel powerful though.
I feel tired.
For the past month we have started to go to a second church for services. It is one hour and fifteen minutes that I can sit and listen and learn. It is the only time in my week I am not there to give. It is a blessing. I am grateful for it.
I am not sure what my purpose is in this blog. I just know, in the pit of my heart, I needed to write it.
I can't be the only one.
These bones. My bones. They cry out.
I am dry.
Rise them up, Lord.
Breathe into me.
