I sit and I ponder the piece in me that disallows me to love you the way I wish I could. You have given so much to me and, despite my desperate attempts, I am unable to repay. I feel as though there is a dark and hollow place inside me that keeps me tethered to darkness, prohibiting me from loving you the way I wish I could. It keeps me from being all I think you want me to be.
There is a part I think is broken. Heavy. Useless. This part that stalls me, trips me up, keeps me planted impatiently. The part I ask–no, beg–you to take, to change, to redeem.
Or, perhaps, it is a place not within but around. A circumstance beyond our control. A place of pain, of pondering, of bending and breaking. A place of hurt beyond words. Of grief, anger. We ask for an ending but see none in sight.
I feel like I’m here, God. Begging you to change, to shift, to interrupt the rhythm and flow of discomfort and angst and replace them with a new pattern–a pattern of fresh grace, an energetic flow of ease and peace.
I hate this place, inward and outward.
But your voice came to me in the crisp, coolness of evening. It was soft. You took this piece into your hands, you covered this place with your presence and you said–
“This. This is the place that is blessed. Blessed are the incapable.”
And now I meditate and pray.
This is the place that is blessed.
Blessed are the incapable.
When I realize I can’t, I make space for someone who can.
My God, how often do I strive? How often do I push, force, trying to do what I think I should? How often do I grieve my brokenness and my stuckness, when you are the one telling me–
“This is the place that is blessed.”
This part of me, this place I think is dark and cursed–this place I have convinced myself you hate… This is the place you call blessed.
This is the place you choose to make your home, nesting where I think it is cold.
But you are warmth. You are light. You are water. You are breath. You are life.
Yes, my Gracious Father, this is the place you call blessed.
The pieces fall cold, dark, dry, suffocated, dead. This is the place that’s blessed.
Because you are here. You are here–breathing life, cultivating grace.
Lord, let me make space for you.
Blessed are the incapable!
Let me trust you–trust you enough to breathe, to release, to play. Yes. Let me so aware of your finished work that I may play.
I want to run free inside your vast wilderness of provision; fly in your endless, starry skies of completion.
Let me be so incredibly lost in you that I am completely found; so tethered to you that I am free.
Yes, God. Blessed are the incapable. For they are free to trust, to rest, to play. They yield and are patient. They know intimately the provision of their creator.
I have felt out of control here, overwhelmed. But this point of breaking is a point of healing.
In stillness, I can hear the pulsating beat of your love that never fails.
Like oxygen, your essence spreads through to decaying places.
When I am quiet, when I stop forcing and straining, when I release the need for control, when I make space, I hear your anthem ring out into the cosmos of you; the anthem that says, “This is covered, too.”
Yes, God. This place–this place of pain–this is the place that is blessed.
Blessed are the incapable.