Some days the baby pees on you, and you’ve got damp diaper overflow on your jeans and you have to change. You get up, you find clean(ish) jeans, you change, and you come back to kiss him on the forehead.
Some days, you want to swear and curse and punch, but you kneel halfhearted on your bedroom floor and you sing in your aching alto to songs with words that hurt: words of sacrifice: words of praise. The words tear out of your lungs and they don’t sound true, at first, and your voice sounds strange, but suddenly you mean every bittersweet note:
Savior, he can move the mountains. My God is mighty to save…
And he is good, and he is good, and he is good…
For the glory of the risen King.
Some days, you wake up early, words writhing in your mind, and you get up and you put on the headphones again. Because somehow, in the drowning of sound, in the drowning out of yourself—you save yourself from drowning in you.
Some days, you stare at the screen, and then you stare at the window, and your fingers are still. And there are no words. Every biting, bitter word, every aching word, every hopeful word—they’ve all passed and gone, and you’re emptied and dry. Nothing left to try. Nothing left to say.
Some days, long before bedtime, you turn off the lamp, curl up in your hoodie and your hat, and hide under the covers. You wake up to a sleep-dry mouth and a warm fog in your limbs.
You’re empty. You have nothing left to give.
But you can feel God sitting with you: this warm peace, welcoming you when you’ve lost all human hope.
And there is this beauty in rest: in being broken.
Everything you’ve tried to fix, you have failed to fix.
And it’s okay.
Even if you’ve tried to fix your own self and you’ve failed: it’s okay.
God knows the sweaty damp that clings to your skin, the writhing anxiety, the constant soaping of hands. God knows the fumble of your tongue for words. God knows you smile and you lie, to hide being broken.
God knows you’re broken.
And he comes right into the cool draft of the room and the sticky blankets on skin and the aching of your heart.
You offer to get up, even just to sit up, but he says—stay.
I’ve got you.
The world tells you the first priority is to be fixed—and God says, my first priority is you, just as you are.
And even when you’re broken—He never stops seeing the whole person, the whole you. He sees both and He loves you and He comes in the dark, damp places and says, let’s open the windows and let the light in.
He peers through the cracks and says, let’s fill you up with My love so that it spills out of these broken places, right into this desperate dust of the earth. You won’t run out—I’ll just keep filling you up, because I never run out.
People say, you’re going to be okay—and it’s true. You will. But right now—it’s okay if you’re not okay. It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to stop trying to make everything okay again.
Just accept this moment. Breathe it in. It’s a gift. Every heartbeat—how could I ever forget what a gift this erratic pulsing blood is?
And it’s okay.
Not because you’re okay. Because He is. Because He is okay with you just as you are. He wants to help you out—He wants to restore and redeem you and clothe you in freedom and righteousness.
He doesn’t want you to pull yourself up alone.
Come to the end of yourself. Realize you’ve run out of options.
And just let him heal you.