I made it well through surgery. Trusting Jesus.
I got up and took my first step with a walker. Trusting Jesus.
I got home and got settled. Trusting Jesus.
Baby steps daily. Getting better. Relying on inside strength and soaking in the love of the brethren. Trusting Jesus.
Too much pain for sleeping well. But trusting Jesus.
And then, one morning, I find myself collapsing in the presence of God. As much as I think I am trusting Jesus, I am coming up short on every level.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
“I can’t do this,” I bawl.
After decades of walking with Jesus, I don’t know how to let Him carry the pain. And that is not okay.
I am not okay.
This life of letting Him live through me, it’s not for the faint of heart.
This life of letting Him shine through me, it’s humbling me to the core.
How often have I given Him credit for what I did on my own, not seeing the enormity of my foolishness?
Sobbing on my recliner, I can’t catch my breath–the reality of my sin overwhelms me.
Indeed, I can’t do this. Not the pain, not the rehab, not the being godly through it, not the letting go of my ridiculous attempts at strength.
In the silence that follows the sobs, God wraps His arms around me and rocks me gently.
“It’s a good place to be,” He whispers. “For when you are weak, I am strong.”