I am petrified to write. I am petrified that I will sit down, my fingers will move, and the same words I’ve spoken a thousand times will roll forth again. I’m petrified that I have nothing of worth to say. I’m petrified that I have nothing at all to say.
A friend of mine was over the other day – she said she was embracing time with God as it came. That she was taking the quiet moments in her day and giving them to him, consecrating them for communion.
That petrifies me too.
Because I ache for a life that moves in rhythms of abiding grace. And abiding comes in the quiet moments of the day. It comes when sacred bleeds into every breath and every green and brown encountered is holy. And yet, I am petrified to spend time with God. I’m petrified that I won’t have anything to say. That the words I do say will be weightless and empty. I am petrified that he will not have anything to say to me. That I’m done. That he’s not actually teaching me anything at all – and what, then, will I answer when people ask what I’ve been learning. Heaven forbid I shouldn’t have an answer.
Fear is a lie allowed to enter when love is not the voice you hear in the stillness.
Love, please do not give up on me. Please do not heed my screaming – over my own fingers jammed tightly and trembling in my tired ears – screaming that I cannot hear you. Forgive my trembling fingers, forgive my weary eyes. Forgive that I blamed you for my sick heart. Heart, forgive me for running from the arms you cried for day and night. Forgive me for the lies I let seep in and choke you. Love, please do not give up on me.
I will be still. I will be still and know you. I will be still and let you know me.