Sometimes I have no words.
I turn to Scripture, and I am gifted the words of my heart’s cry.
I cannot put it any better than this:
“My soul is sorely troubled”.
Disillusioned. Despaired. Unattached. Defender. Unpretender.
I am not giving up the sacred for comfort.
The Psalter reminds me that life is never meant to be easy or easy-to-explain, but faithful living is a breaking way, a surrendering of a Self that is so easily indulged by the world.
I have fought the fight to hold on to What-is not-of-this-world in my house.
And even when I am overwhelmed and troubled, I will continue to hold on to whatever shred of faith is left. It will be my deathbed posture. I claim it to be so. It will. It’s the only way I got through one deconversion... casting my eyes to the end—knowing that I shall never give up. Stubbornly so.
Oh, Fire refine. Do not devour.
Take care, my soul.
Christ complete, not just in part.
Only in Him am I “me”.