Sorely Troubled

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”.

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