They look at me with such kind eyes. They're rooting for me, they say. But I feel vulnerable. Is it okay that I'm not hiding the pain in my heart? That I let them see my uncertainty, that I don't have it all together? Is it okay to end a conversation with "I don't know?"
It weighs on me. I feel it pressing into my shoulders. It's heavy and unexpected and complicated.
Their kindness soothes me, but it doesn't change things. Their love washes over me gently, but my vision is still clouded. Their support brings me joy, but I still feel this burden.
I'm tired of surrendering. I wish it were a one-time deal.
But it's not.
"The problem with living sacrifices is that they keep crawling off the altar." -Chuck Swindoll
So I crawl back, dragging along my frustration and heartache and confusion. I look for a moment with stubbornness at the familiar altar. My emotions shift from stubbornness to weariness to resolve.
I lug my backpack of emotions to the edge and push it up onto the altar. Then I climb up after and uncurl my clenched hands.
Once again I'm here with my offering, with my very self. I look up to Him with a tear-stained face.
I feel Him approach. His all-powerful presence nearing my altar of sacrifice. Will He accept it once again?
But the next thing I know He's wrapping His arms around me and lifting me off the altar. I'm not sure where my burdens went and it doesn't seem to matter. I rest in His strong yet gentle embrace. Oh, Abba. Is this what surrender feels like because right now I simply feel