I often think I have a solid two decades of faith as my foundation, and then I come across old prayer journals and realize I have a decade and a half of self-deprecating theology instead.
All I ever did was beg God to make me better than I was, to pick apart every little instance that may have been unworthy, and cast judgement according to His Scripture (or the interpretation I was told at the time).
Why did I believe in Christ anyway? Fear of Hell? Fear of what I was capable of if I finally gave up on the legalism?
Perhaps, that season held permission from the Spirit to drink milk day in and day out, knowing I
didn’t fully get the grace, knowing one day, the very theology I clung to would completely break the man who had my heart.
Maybe, the Spirit knew that at the breaking, I would wean from the milk and starve for meat.
It came with a breaking—
It came with shattered hearts, disastrous doubt, and eyes washed anew.
I step along this road of faith, realizing its vastness, its supernatural root, and its unattainable goodness in the flesh.
But, even so, I am at peace in the Love of God, without the wretched words of a heart shamed like I poured out on these pages. I am aware more than ever, that even in the deprecating cries to Him, I was but a child—focusing on me and not Him.
He is worthy, and because of life in Him, I am okay.